Repression
by auriellis
Summary: A dark psychological tale of Harley Quinn's origin. It begins in Arkham Asylum after Dr. Harleen Quinzel is assigned the Joker's case and desperate to make a connection to her mad patient, she starts a game between them that will forever change her life. Nolanverse. Rated M for a reason Joker/Harley
1. Chapter 1: Boom

Chapter One: Boom

"You truly feel that there's some patients who can't be helped?" Joan asked, blowing gently over her steaming coffee mug.

Her companion sipped from her cup, taking a moment before answering. "It's not so much that they can't be helped but that they don't want to be helped and will sabotage every attempt to progress in therapy. So in a sense, nothing will ever make them better."

"Interesting. When I first hired you, I didn't expect you'd be so cynical, so early in your career."

With a tiny shake of her blond head, Harleen smiled. "I'm not cynical. Just realistic. There is a reason long-term care exists, and why our violent criminal ward is populated by the same faces year in and year out. Can you recall the last time someone from that ward was released, ready to be a healthy, productive member of society? It hasn't happened since I've been here."

"Which has only been one year," Joan pointed out.

Another pause. Joan had gotten rather used to the silence during each conversation. Dr. Harleen Quinzel was known amongst her colleagues as an introverted woman, the very essence of control, one who always thought before she spoke. Sitting in Dr. Joan Leland's office for their weekly reconnection meeting, the two women seemed at ease around one another, professional, yet friendly.

"I've looked over the files. In that time, four patients were scheduled to be released per their original sentencing. All four are still sitting in their rooms, completely unchanged from the day they arrived, at least, if the attending physician's notes are an accurate account."

Joan nodded. "Point taken. We've had the courts reconsider many of our patient's initial terms from the maximum security ward." Putting down the mug, she tilted her head slightly and watched Harleen's reaction as she asked the next question. "Given your opinion, why do you still work here at Arkham?"

No pause this time. "Because I have to try, even if it won't help."

* * *

><p>"Why do you feel morals are the problem?" asked the attending psychiatrist, Dr. Parker, from off camera, as the screen came to life.<p>

Harleen leaned back in her office chair, turned slightly so her elbow could rest on the desk, as she watched the video play. She was mildly surprised that a high profile case such as the Joker's would land in her lap so quickly. At thirty years old, she was young and inexperienced for her profession, but she had earned the respect of highly influential people for her research in repression therapy. Dr. Leland was obviously impressed enough to give her a job. And even though she had been somewhat successful in her repression therapy with the milder cases, none of that experience would help with someone like the Joker.

_Maybe it doesn't matter_, she mused to herself, as she watched the snippet of video for the fourth time in a row. _Maybe Joan is just desperate enough to try anything. _

Dr. Quinzel was to be the fourth psychiatrist in six months to treat the Joker. A record, even for Arkham. Each psychiatrist had left Arkham soon after working with the Joker, for a variety of reasons. After reading the various notes from her former co-workers, and watching the many recorded sessions, Harleen was starting to piece together the truth of why each of them left. And she was determined not to follow in their footsteps.

In the video, the focus was on the Joker, framed center on the camera. The makeup that the public knew him for was gone. His hair still held green highlights but it was washing out slowly over his incarceration. And while the deep, raised scars were the most noticeable aspect of his face, Harleen felt herself drawn to his eyes and their intensity as they focused off screen at his doctor.

"You're simplifying the problem, doc," the Joker said, wiggling a little underneath his straight jacket. "It's not really about the morals. It's about society's views. If I sent you a box with a remote trigger to a bomb and told you that you'd receive enough money to live the rest of your boring life comfortably, but you'd have to kill a random stranger by pressing the trigger, would you do it?"

"No."

"And that's the problem, doc. You're giving me the standard moral answer. Because you know you'd be judged for it by society. That's where the ferry experiment went wrong. Too many witnesses. But if I tell you that you would have no consequences for pressing that trigger, most people would let their morals fly out of the window, and then..." He laughed, a strangely gleeful sound.

It cut off abruptly when a knock was heard at the door. "Excuse me, doctor," a female voice said off camera. "It's an emergency."

"Of course."

There were sounds of shuffling in the background, as the Joker's head tracked the movement of the doctor until the door closed and then glanced around his surroundings. After a couple of minutes, he turned back to the camera and gave his brightest smile, exaggerated by the scars. His eyes pierced through the camera, boring into Harleen, as if he knew she was watching his every movement, tongue darting out for a moment to lick at his scars.

"Boom," he said suddenly to the camera.

A moment later, the shuffling sounds returned and the female voice instructed someone to take the Joker back to his room. As he was dragged off, Harleen could hear the Joker, laughing softly to himself before the screen went to black.

She paused the video again and looked back to the many notes she had made while going through the files. Dr. Parker's wife died last week in an accidental gas leak, so the authorities said. Judging by the date and time of the session, and the nature of the conversation, especially that final "boom", Harleen was becoming convinced that somehow the Joker had performed the experiment he described in the video. And Mrs. Parker was the unfortunate random stranger. It was both disturbing and clever.

For his first two psychiatrists, Harleen had watched their videos only once, but it was enough to know that they were never in control. The Joker spent the sessions locating their weaknesses and needling at them until they couldn't stand to be in the same facility as him. He was good. Very good.

Harleen knew she would have to better.


	2. Chapter 2: Masks

Chapter Two: Masks

Like many psychiatrists, Harleen preferred to see her patients in her office. She wouldn't make a change just because it was the Joker. Her office had been cleared. All files, personal effects, and anything that could be used as a weapon were locked away in a file cabinet or inside her desk. A necessity, as the Joker was prone to violence and had already injured several members of the staff, killed two guards, and had proven on several occasions he could get out of his straight jacket.

The layout of the office was designed to create the greatest sense of connection between doctor and patient, with the desk out of the way and against the wall opposite the door, the matching chair tucked in to blend into the background. All file cabinets were the same, as far away from her patients as she could get them, even if it inconvenienced her. She had requested the silver-blue color scheme to promote a sense of calm amongst her patients.

The center of the room was her real workspace. Although Harleen would never admit it out loud, she loved the cliché of the psychiatrist's couch, so a simple brown leather couch was installed near the center. Two matching comfy chairs sat opposite to maximize the ease of anyone in the room, much like a standard living room set up in a house, coffee table and all.

Convinced she had taken all the precautions she could, she sat in one of the comfy chairs, laying her iPad on the coffee table. Harleen closed her eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly to calm herself. Deep down, tension gripped her, worry knotting her stomach. To most people, it would seem a case of nerves due to her new assignment, concern for her own well being. She only wished that was the problem.

Another breath in. Another out. No one could understand the source of her tension. Except maybe the Joker. And that terrified her beyond anything else. He would be able to sense something and if he pried too deep, she would become undone. A broken doll to be used.

Never again.

When she opened her eyes again, her body relaxed and she felt the worry flow out of her body. She had full control of herself. The mask settled into place, rigid steel, a blank slate. He would see the control, know it had purpose, and seek out that weakness. But she refused to ever let him see her true self.

Some secrets were meant to stay hidden.

* * *

><p>The guards were unusually chatty today as they dragged him through the administrative wing of the mental institute. Distracted was good. They didn't notice he had already snaked his arms out of the straight jacket and was essentially one swift motion away from being free.<p>

But not yet. After all, it was time to meet his new doctor.

The name on the office door said "Dr. Harleen Quinzel." Unusual name that begged the question of who named her and why pick such an obvious pun? He made a mental note to check into that. Inside the office looked as if someone was trying too hard to create a "safe" environment for emotional outpouring. A hilarious contrast between here and the outside drab corridor. As if anyone would ever be comfortable with someone constantly asking probing, unimportant questions.

As he was dragged into place on the couch, his feet locked down, his eyes wandered around the room, taking in every detail and committing it to memory. And when the guards moved out of the way, he finally allowed his eyes to settle on her.

Superficial first. Young. Either a new graduate who got extremely unlucky or someone who requested to see him. Unfortunate either way. Blond, though not naturally. He could see her darker roots through the tight hair leading to the bun on the top of her head. Also, trying to appear professional and older with the hairstyle. Comfortable black pants, flat shoes, ready to move if she needed to. More interesting, a soft green turtle neck sweater, light enough for the weather but still out of place. Dr. Quinzel was hiding something.

Pockets in the pants, keys likely located there. Easy. Glasses, either completely for show or only for reading. Looking over the tops of them at him. Snap the frame, sharp edge. Veins closer to the skin, would bruise easily and bleed quickly. Little makeup. Keeping up appearances. No rings. Not engaged or married. Athletic build to the body but not bulky. Participated in some sport but not regularly.

Deeper. Every motion was controlled. The moment the guards walked in, Dr. Quinzel used no unnecessary motions. Poker face, not showing any reaction to his presence. Smart girl. Control like that, no serious relationships either. Her body was relaxed except for her feet, which tensed and released unconsciously. She was slightly nervous. That would change.

"Thank you," Dr. Quinzel said to the guards with a small smile. Controlled again. Voice betrayed no nerves. Pitch was pleasant but faked. He would love to hear her real voice, gasping out a scream.

Her attention turned towards him as she picked up an iPad off the coffee table. No pad of paper. Again, smart. The guards left but neither of them noticed, staring openly at each other. He offered her a smile, letting her get a good look at his scars, no makeup to hide the grotesque reminder of how fragile flesh could be. His mask was gone. Hers, soon, would follow.

No reaction. Her blue eyes didn't flicker away from him, even for a moment. Not trying to establish dominance though. She was studying him in return.

There. Right there. Barely noticeable. A slight twitch to the side of her lip, as if fighting a smile, except she was unaware of the motion. The doc had given herself away.

She was going to be much more fun the last three.

* * *

><p>Harleen expected his silence. He wouldn't respond well, as she learned from the videos, to her making the first move. The videos displayed his contempt when the other doctors talked about their credentials and how much they just wanted to get to know him. He'd wrenched control from them in such a short time. She wouldn't make that mistake.<p>

So they stared at one another. Occasionally, gazes would wander, taking in details, but they always returned back to the eyes. Silence filled the room, yet Harleen didn't feel uncomfortable as others would.

It was a test and she had to pass it.

He looked just as calm as she felt. The usual bright red jumpsuit from maximum security, partially covered by the straight jacket, everything hiding that his arms were no longer in the sleeves. His arms were still looped correctly behind the sleeves, but likely had a tight grip on the inside to fling it off in a moment's notice. She noted that almost the moment he walked in, surprised he didn't try anything right off the bat. Also surprised the guards didn't notice. But to betray that secret to them would mean the end of any possible trust between the Joker and her.

The intense dark eyes continued to stare back at her. Harleen didn't believe he would attack her, at least not for awhile. He was interested, which was exactly what she wanted, and that interest would keep her alive.

So, she would play the game.

Time passed and the quiet became almost peaceful, the low hum of the building's heating unit removing any ambient outdoor noise. She found herself almost in a meditative trance, noting his breathing had slowed to match hers. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

A loud bang against the door startled her out of her reverie. Reluctantly, she looked up to the clock and saw the hour had passed with not a word between them. Giving no indication of her disappointment, she stood and opened the door for the guards to take him back to his cell. She watched dispassionately as the guards reset the leg cuffs, his eyes continuing to follow her, even as he was dragged out the door.

Most psychiatrists would have considered the hour a waste but she hoped it would be a step towards a productive relationship with the Joker. The sheer fact that he didn't rip his way out of his straight jacket and murder her was a good sign. Looking at the bright side, she smiled as she headed to turn off the camera.

A male scream pierced the air before it was abruptly cut off. Remembering her training, she immediately hit the alarm button on the wall near the camera before rushing towards her desk, pulling the keys out of her pants packet. Jamming them into the drawer lock and opening the top drawer, she looked for the taser Dr. Leland had given her when she started. She'd never had a need for it before but it had to be here. Her eyes finally spotted the device.

At the exact same moment, she felt the hot breath next to her ear, a body pressing against her back._ I am so stupid,_ she thought. Classic mistake. She left the door open. She deserved whatever he was about to do to her. Before she could react, an arm slithered around her neck, in a hold that could easily choke her, her head forced to extend closer to him. Terror gripped her as she tried to feel blindly for the taser in the drawer.

And then the raspy voice that she had heard so often on video spoke against her ear, making her stop her frantic groping.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, too, Dr. Quinzel."

The arm released her and by the time she found the nerve to turn around, she heard his cackling laughter reverberating through the corridor. He was gone.

Twenty minutes later when the shock and adrenalin had worn off, Harleen found herself in extremely high spirits. She'd passed the test.


	3. Chapter 3: Q&A

Chapter Three: Q&A

Two days later, Harleen found herself sitting in front of the Joker again. This time, his arms were completely secured in the straight jacket. Not that he couldn't squirm his way out of it again. He was sporting some new bruises, no doubt, given to him by some of the guards in retaliation. No one died during his mad dash around the asylum, but the two escorting him that day were in the hospital, as were three inmates, one doctor, and a visitor. He didn't seem to mind the pain, though. She could relate.

Once they were alone, she took up her iPad and leaned back in her chair. This session would be different, since she could now take the gauntlet he tossed down at her feet. And she had one hell of a unorthodox approach to utilize.

"Good morning," she said, allowing a small smile to grace her lips. "I'm pleased you were able to make our session today." A smirk crossed his face and she continued, taking a deep breath before speaking. "Having studied your file, watched the videos, and seen what you did to my predecessors, I'm fairly certain that conventional methods of treatment won't work with you. I doubt even the unconventional methods would, either."

Harleen stood up, his eyes following her as she walked to the camera. She turned it off and looked back to him. "So here's my proposal. Let me know what you think." She tapped something into her iPad before continuing. She wanted his rapt attention. "I want us to have a real dialogue, a give and a take. A chance for you to learn about me, as I get to know you, without you paying off some member of the Arkham staff for information." She paused again, waiting for his reaction.

The Joker nodded, conceding the truth of her statement.

"No cameras, just you and me," she said as she sat back down, adjusting her blue turtleneck sweater. "And for every question I ask that you answer, you get one in return that I will answer. You can get as personal as you like. No holds barred for either of us. However, if you attack me or harm me in any way, this dance ends. I doubt that would be satisfying for either of us."

She spread out her hands, both in invitation and in challenge. "So, do you want to tango?"

He laughed, an almost sickly sound, up close. When it died down, he moistened his bottom lip and said, "I like you, Dr. Harleen Quinzel. Who gave you that name?"

Challenge accepted, it seemed. She kept her controlled face on, despite the inner relief she felt. Unorthodox indeed. One of the first things they taught in psychoanalysis is to never give out personal information. It could create too close a bond between patient and psychiatrist, or in cases like the Joker, it could be used against the doctor. At least this way, she could control the flow of information for awhile and learn something about him, just from the sorts of questions he asked and maybe even from his answers.

Lowering her hands back to her lap, Harleen smiled at him. "My mother chose the name. You could have killed me two days ago, why didn't you?"

"It's bad luck to kill a woman wearing green," he said quickly. "Can I call you Harleen?"

As usual, she took a moment to think before she spoke. "In here, you may. Outside of my office, you can call me Dr. Quinzel, or even Doc if you prefer. What should I call you?"

He tilted his head slightly to the side to consider the question. "You," he emphasized the word, "can call me Mr. J."

Harleen nodded, masking her inner delight. This was the first time he'd given anyone a name by which to call him. Others had just called him the Joker because that's what the media called him. But the J could refer to anything and it could be a huge clue into who he really was.

"Do you have any interesting scars, Harleen?" Jumping subjects.

"Yes, I do, Mr. J and before you waste the question, no, you can't see them. Did you arrange to have Dr. Parker's wife killed?" She just had to know.

"I heard she died in a gas leak. Very tragic. She must have been a smoker." Not denying but not admitting. She wasn't surprised. "Why do you ask?"

She considered her words very carefully before deciding on the perfect answer. "Boom."

Silence for a moment as their eyes met in understanding, then a bout of laughter struck him, again. She tried to keep her face as straight as she could, but Harleen could feel the edges of her lips going up. The moment she realized, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her exercise again. One more deep breath forced her back to her center and she reopened her eyes.

Mr. J was staring at her. She didn't realize until that moment that his laughter stopped the second her eyes closed. Panic was pushed down. She knew the consequences of the dance, and she made a tiny misstep. It wasn't enough to mean anything.

Laying her tablet on the table in front of her, Harleen asked again, "Why didn't you kill me?"

"Because whatever you have bottled up inside of you is going to explode some day, and I want to watch when that happens."

Behind her mask, she shuddered.

* * *

><p>"Why did you become a psychiatrist, Harleen?"<p>

Clever girl. This game was already enticing. A small crack in her wall, something to pound against later when she was less guarded. The good doctor had a dark streak, one she hid. He just hadn't figured out what set her off. The explosion or his laugh. The explosion would point to a habrimaniacal side, inappropriate reactions to horrific situations. The laugh would show how easily influenced she could be. Further testing would be needed.

She crossed her legs the other way. Disinterested in the question he posed. Another turtleneck. For the second time, not an inch of skin was visible except her hands and her face. Definitely hiding something.

"I enjoy helping people," That fake smile plastered on her face. To anyone else, it would have seemed genuine.

"You're a good liar," he commented.

"If you're not going to be honest, then why should I?" she retorted.

"If I can discern your lies from your truths, then it's pointless."

"Seeing a lie isn't the same as knowing the truth, Mr. J. Your turn."

"Have you ever watched someone die in front of you?"

Harleen's eyes looked through him for a couple of seconds, deep in thought. Her pauses before every response were becoming annoying. No impulsive actions or words. Nothing out of anger or shock. Soon.

"Yes I have. Did you ever have another profession besides crime?"

"I was a dog groomer but the owners didn't like the kinds of cuts I enjoyed giving their precious pooches." He shrugged, under the jacket. "Who did you watch die?"

"My mother. She died of cancer." Another lie. His lip curled up. Interesting.

"How did you get those scars?" she asked. They always asked eventually. She was quick to the punch.

"I'm not ready to tell you that story yet." He licked his lips. "I'll let you know when I am."

That got a reaction. A strange look of disbelief for just a second before her face smoothed out. The different stories he told over the past few months, from even before he was sent to Arkham, were always told at random, whenever the mood struck, which was often. The dear young doctor didn't expect him to clam up now.

But predictability was the mark of the mob, the lemmings that couldn't admit that rules were just another control collar. And perhaps that was why he found her so interesting. It wasn't about what lay beneath but rather that she had so many rules, her own forced control, designed to keep her like everyone else.

Reminded him of someone else.

Breaking the young woman was not the goal. He just wanted to set her free.


	4. Chapter 4: Decisions

Chapter Four: Decisions

"What did you dream about last night?" Mr. J asked, as soon as the door closed.

Harleen put a finger to her chin, looking away, as if trying to recall her dreams. In truth, she was thinking about how to get him to open up more. She felt as if she hadn't made much headway at all after their first dance three weeks ago. She had learned much about his philosophies about society, morals, and rules, most of which was already in his file. But very little about him as a person or his underlying motivations.

"I dreamed about you," she said, a realization forming in her head as the words came out. For the past two times with her, he had begun lines of questioning that were too well thought out for supposedly being impromptu. Even his random questions were starting to feel rehearsed. As if he spent hours and hours working on them to pack the most efficient punch. But she anticipated this possibility when she started these sessions.

She was becoming the object of his fixation.

Mr. J had an obsessive personality, judging by the files she had read on his interactions with the vigilante. The one note that all his previous doctors had agreed upon was that he always needed an audience. Incorrectly, they all assumed Gotham was that audience, as did she, until this very moment. No, he craved something more. His opposite. The control to his chaos. Outside, it was the Batman. Inside the walls of Arkham, he chose her.

Beneath her exterior of calm, she was amazed she never thought about this before. It was a huge revelation to who Mr. J truly was behind the insanity, and an even greater lead to his personal background. If she could tap into that, somehow, she could expose the roots of his mind and find a way to repress his negative impulses.

"Do you dream at all?" she asked in return, almost absently as she pondered how to approach this new breakthrough.

"Everyone dreams, doc, just not everyone remembers their dreams." Cryptic answers again. "What happened in your dream?"

She wondered, for just a second, if he was taking the Freudian or the Jungian approach to dream analysis. "I don't recall much. Just flashes of you, blood, and screaming. Have you ever dreamed about me?"

"I dream about you every night," he said, his eyes meeting hers with no hint of irony. Not crude or malicious, or even amused. No, he was letting her see what he had planned, a brief glimpse. It confirmed her new found premise. Obsession. As his audience, he was making it clear that from now on, everything he did was for her benefit. Every person he killed, every action he took, every word he said, would be a symbol that their dance was far from finished.

Silence filled the room for the first time in weeks as she met his eyes. Harleen was torn. Torn between the desire to heal his mind, and the fear of the inevitable damage that was going to occur if they continued. The best thing to do was to quit while she was ahead, take the high road. Walk away from the case, the asylum, maybe move to Metropolis and leave him to find someone else to fixate on.

"Who was screaming in your dream?" he asked, breaking the quiet.

Harleen got up from her chair, moving towards her desk so he couldn't see her face. Beneath the layers of control, she felt the stirring. A small tendril of her past forcing its way into her mind. Hardening her and removing her fear, a reminder that the high road was too safe for someone with her history. Taking risks was part of her nature.

She pushed the tendril back down where it belonged, bringing her mask back up before turning to Mr. J. "It wasn't me," she replied. Harleen could hear the unspoken reply echoing in her mind.

_Not yet._

* * *

><p>No turtleneck this time. A purple scarf, instead, hiding her secrets. Daring him to rip it off. As the guards walked him back to his cell, he imagined what he would find beneath it. Discolored marks, a permanent dye marking her. A tattoo, too scandalous and unprofessional for her job. Scars, mistakes of her youth. Or perhaps nothing but her perfect smooth skin underneath. The good doctor would not like the outcome of teasing him like that.<p>

A left turn, a right turn, thirty more steps and home sweet home. Inside the cell, the guards pushed him against the wall, removing the locks on the jacket. He said nothing as they locked the cell, watching them as they walked away. Guard One had a weak right wrist. Easy to break. Slight limp to his walk, older. Mid fifties. Divorce likely. Had the smile of regular sex. New relationship. Pressure would be easy to apply. Guard two, married. Three kids, he counted so far based on conversation. Sports fan, ex-military. Shoes were two years old. Harder to pay off but needed the money more. Decisions.

Pushing them to the back of his mind, he turned towards the blank wall on the far side of his cell. His mental canvas, where he mapped out all he learned about Dr. Quinzel. For hours, he would stare at the blank wall, moving items around his mind, lifting a hand up as if he was writing words.

While he didn't need the mental canvas to study his progress, the reaction of the fools in Arkham was more than worth the effort.

Not religious, though once had been. Parents out of the picture. Divorced and far away. Not very good at keep her lies straight, contradictions galore, mother not even dead. Only sees the parents for the holidays. Not much money, enough to get by and pay the bills. Social life, non-existent. Combination of not wanting to spend the money and inability to make real friends. No pets, prefers to stay alone and be able to move with a moment's notice. Lived on the other side of the river. Found the former Narrows colorful and unique. Definitely never been truly poor in her life.

A new thought was tickling his skull after today. Her trauma source. Control as strong as hers had a severe trauma to create it. Not the mother Not the father. No siblings. Heartbroken teenage blues? Too simple. Whatever kid got her virginity first was long gone from her mind. No, her trauma was fresh enough that her control wasn't complete.

He was missing something. What was he missing? Add in the earlier session, and he saw it.

("Why did you pick psychology a as major?" he asked. "Because I failed Business 101 one too many times to consider that as a career," she replied, partially truthful.)

Psychology, medicine, not her original plan. The good doctor changed her plans. Why did any clever girl fail a college course? Only three real reasons came to mind. Depression, love, or partying. Or some combination of the three. The trauma would either be the cause of, or the result of those three.

He laughed, jumping up on his bed, bouncing like a kid, excited about the next session. The good doctor's mind was becoming clearer, giving so much away without even realizing it. A work of art waiting to be turned into a masterpiece.

He collapsed down onto the mattress, his legs folding under him, sitting upright. Whirling his head at a strange tsking sound, he noticed he had an audience of one, observing him from the cell across the hall.

"Crane," he said, with contempt.

The arrogant tone of the former doctor came back. "Clown."

"You have a problem?"

"You're disturbing my reading," he replied, flipping the page of a book in his lap.

Mr. J stared at him, not saying a word., fighting the sharp desire to cut Crane's throat so he didn't have to hear the pretentious whining anymore. Instead, he smiled, standing and grabbing the bars tightly. "The doctors here are like eggs, Crane. Most of them just need a push off the table to watch them crack. You should know."

The sneer of indignation from Crane gave him a brief second of amusement. Taunting his current status was akin to screaming "Fire!" while pouring gasoline on someone. That reminded him…

"I have a project, doc, one I need your special skills for. A research project. You doctors are good at research, I hear. And all you have to do is be yourself." Crane flipped another page, poignantly ignoring him.

"I, of course, am referring to your real self, not this 'take your medicine, eat your veggies' good boy act of yours. You belong doing what you do best, Scarecrow. So," Mr. J said, smiling wider than before. "What would you be willing to do to get your mask back?"

It was almost too easy.


	5. Chapter 5: Scars

Chapter Five: Scars

When Harleen's alarm clock sounded two days later, she groaned against her pillow. The stress of her insanely busy schedule was finally getting to her. She hadn't had a real day off, not even national holidays. Many of the patients at Arkham needed full time care, and as the newest addition to the staff, she was the one always on call while everyone else was out watching fireworks and having barbeques. Not that she didn't have vacation days, but she had already requested off the week of Thanksgiving and the week of Christmas so she could visit her family.

Exhausted to her core, she couldn't force herself out of bed. How many hours of sleep did she get? Four? No, more like three and half if she counted the half hour that her brain wouldn't shut off. She didn't think she could muster the strength to deal with anyone today.

So she called in sick for the day. Joan was sympathetic, as always. "Feel better soon, Harleen. And what do you want me to do with your patient schedules?"

She could hear the tired lilt to her voice as she replied, "I would cancel them all but I'm close to breakthroughs with Freely and Harrison. Can you move them to tomorrow at ten and eleven respectively? You can cancel Falcone and Loring. Oh and please make sure that the nurses got my medication changes for Falcone, as well, if you have the time."

"And the Joker?"

She sighed. "Put him first thing tomorrow morning."

"Sounds like he's wearing you out ," Joan said.

"They all are, Joan. They all are. Thank you for helping."

After hanging up, Harleen placed her phone back on the night stand, snuggled under the covers and made the decision that when she woke up, mindless television and sushi would revitalize her. Within minutes, she was back asleep.

* * *

><p>It was dark when she woke up to the sound of her cell going off. She blinked, slightly confused, grasping at the cell phone, seeing the Asylum on the other end. She clicked the green button, placing the phone to her ear while glancing over at the clock on her stand. Her second nap of the day had lasted four hours and it was after nine.<p>

"Hello?"

"Harleen, thank god you're there," came Joan's frantic voice.

"You woke me up. What's going on?" It wasn't a social call. Her mind immediately became alert.

"The Joker escaped."

"What happened?" She climbed out of bed, throwing on her Victoria style robe that covered her from neck to toe.

"To be honest, we're still piecing it together," Joan explained. "The police are already here and looking into what happened. I've been elbow deep in injuries." She sounded almost as tired as Harleen and about ready to cry. "What we know is that Lonnie Martinez was found dead next to his cell, his gun and keys missing. I heard the police say two other guards were killed outside but I'm not sure who. It's been too chaotic to really get the full story."

"Okay, deep breaths Joan," Harleen said. She walked out of her bedroom, moving hair out from under her robe and turning on the hallway light. "It's clearly been a very rough day for you. Do you need me to come in?"

"Are you feeling better?"

"I'm not at one hundred percent but this is obviously more important than my health," Harleen replied, entering the kitchen just down the hall. Not bothering to waste the electricity to illuminate the room, the light from the hall being enough to see, she took a cup out of cupboard.

"I can be there in forty five minutes. I just need some time to change and wake up fully."

"Thank you." The relief in her voice was evident. "I could really use your assistance calming down the mob, plus there are some injuries that need some basic patching up and I don't know how much longer I can stand."

Harleen turned on the faucet and poured some water into her cup. "You sound exhausted. Go sit down somewhere, get some coffee or water, and just rest for a couple of minutes. Let the adrenalin wear off. You're not going to be much help if you crash where you're standing."

"I will," the other woman said."Also, I'm pretty sure the police want to talk with you to see if you have any idea of where he might have gone."

A sudden brightness practically blinded her as the overhead track lights came on. She immediately covered her eyes with the sleeve of her robe, her heart leaping in her chest as panic struck her. She must have gasped because Joan was saying "Harleen? Everything okay?"

As her eyes adjusted to the change, she slowly dropped her arm, turning to face the doorframe. She knew exactly who would be standing in front of her, in all his psychotic glory. Surprisingly predictable for someone so chaotic.

He must have broken into the personal effects storage because he was wearing the suit and trench coat that every citizen in Gotham knew him for. Not very stealthy but she supposed it was better than the bright red jumpsuit of Arkham prisoners. His face was a mess of white greasepaint with black smudged around his eyes, making their gaze more intense than before. Red smeared over the ridges of his Glasgow smile only highlighted the fact that he wasn't smiling at all.

"Yeah, I think I have a pretty good idea," she said into the phone before placing it into Mr. J's waiting hand.

Harleen set the glass of water down on the counter next to her as he pressed the off button on her phone. Her heart slowed down as her mask settled in, remembering that he wouldn't kill her. He was clearly angry, but wouldn't break that pattern. Joan would have notified the police immediately, so she only had to keep him from harming her for ten to fifteen minutes tops. Judging by the fire behind his eyes, she wasn't so sure she could do that.

Mr. J tossed her cell phone behind him, pulling a knife out of his pocket. "I am very disappointed that you chose to miss our appointment today, Harleen."

"I'm sorry, Mr. J," she said, trying to sound as sincere as possible. "I've been very sick all day."

His eyes narrowed for a moment before he swiftly moved forward, grabbing her roughly by the back of her neck with one gloved hand. "Don't you lie to me!" he spat in her face.

"I'm sorry," she said again, with more emotion behind it, the cool steel of his blade caressing her cheek like a lover. Memories spilled back, the last time she felt the sharp kiss of knives against her skin, sensations never forgotten even after all this time.

Harleen could feel her carefully constructed self-mastery slipping from her, her hair trapped painfully between his glove and her neck. Another forced recollection from the sheer sensory overload of panic and pain. If he cut her, she would lose her restraint completely. "Please, don't do this," She could hear the pleading, desperate tone in her voice.

"I think I'm ready to tell you how I got these scars, Harleen," he said, moving the blade down to touch the outside of her lip, yanking her face closer to his as she tried to push away from him. "Why so scared, doc? I thought you were just dying to hear the story."

She was struggling against the rising impulses that were clawing their way towards the surface. Dread was filling her, so acutely, that her body physically shook in his grip. Barriers inside her mind were crashing down as old demands filled her, wanting their tribute. Grasping for something, anything that was solid, she found her hands clinging to the folds in his vest, inadvertently pulling him even closer.

"God, no…I…I can't!"

The words tumbled from her unintentionally, a sign that she was losing her battle. She needed to find a focus, something to parallel inside her mind as a mental block, a wall. A technique from her repression therapy that was excessively hard to duplicate under such conditions. The water. Her eyes cast downwards, past his arm, to her nearly forgotten glass. Water, a liquid prison, stronger than it looked. Perfect. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the water, while he, no doubt, scanned her every twitch.

Solidifying the wall around mind, her eyes reopened, shaky breaths escaping her lips. Clearly captivated by the mental war, Mr. J readjusted his grip on her neck so he could wrap his blade bearing hand around her body, pulling her so close she could smell the odor of old cigarettes and blood wafting off his coat, feel his hot breath on her cheek.

As the knife pulled away, Harleen felt the last remaining tendrils of shadow fall back from her newly constructed wall of control. Her breathing finally evened out and she watched the disappointment cloud his face, like a child whose new toy wasn't working properly. Several deep breaths to fully clear herself. She felt like she had fought the war with her body as well as her mind. In a way, she had, Mr. J's hands still clutching her tightly.

"Let me go," she said, removing her shaking hands from his vest. If anyone walked in on them, their positioning might have looked like a romantic interlude.

Mr. J, with a sneer, removed his hand from her back, allowing for some breathing room between them. His hold remained steady on the back of her neck as his eyes moved downward. Any woman would have assumed he was looking at her chest but she knew him well enough. Sex wasn't his goal. No, he had noticed her robe opened around her neck, a secret exposed.

His hand slithered up her neck, seizing the back of her skull so he could easily move her head. First left and then right, regarding her neck as it pivoted, a smile finally coming to his lips as he saw what she had been hiding. As much as she wanted to pull away from his probing gaze, she opted for the path of least resistance. His other hand, now empty of the blade, came up to touch her neck lightly, feeling the soft edges of a scar that ripped from one side of her lower neck to the other.

"Oh, but Harleen, you revealed so much," Mr. J said with obvious admiration for her deformed skin. "I forgive you for skipping our appointment."

Abruptly, his hands dropped completely and she nearly lost her balance. Her hairline ached from his rough treatment of her head, but it was a good kind of pain, the kind that reminded her that she had survived the encounter relatively unscathed. Although she wanted to run her hands across her throbbing scalp, she chose to stuff her hands inside the pockets of her robe, moving as far away from Mr. J as the kitchen allowed, against the wall.

"The police will be here soon," she warned.

"Oh good, that will save me the time and trouble of hailing a taxi, killing the driver, deciding what pedestrians to run over..."

His visit seemed to be winding down and not a moment too soon. The energy she expended in the past few minutes drained all the reserves she had regained from her day of rest. "Please, Mr. J, just leave my apartment."

With a tilt of his head, he whirled and headed for the door. In the distance, she could hear the sirens approaching, far quicker than she anticipated. He opened the door, looking back for a moment. "See you tomorrow, doc."

A minute passed and nothing happened. Only then did she allow herself to relax, sliding down the wall until she was sitting, feeling the warm wetness of tears on trickle down her cheeks. When she pulled her hands out of her robe, they were still shaking.

They didn't stop for an hour.


	6. Chapter 6: Consequences

Chapter Six: Consequences

Harleen spent the majority of the night at the local police station, giving her statement of the events in her apartment. Knowing they would never be able to get a straight answer out of Mr. J, she was able to alter the details, making it seem that his visit was less about obsession and more about feeling disrespected. She didn't mention the knife or anything about their dance. She will still protected by doctor-patient confidentiality when it came to that, barring court orders.

Instead she told them that the Joker had entered her apartment and they talked. She was able to calm down his rage and he, having accomplished his goal of scaring her, left willingly with the police. As his doctor, they had no reason to suspect she was lying, especially since she was still shaking, tear streaks down her face, when they came up to talk to her. They believed she had been terrified but held it all together to calm down her patient.

They were proud of her.

Harleen wished she could say the same. The entire time at the station, she was mentally berating herself for being such an idiot. She knew Mr. J was obsessed with her. She knew he was trying to find his way inside her mind. She knew he wouldn't stop until he broke her. And yet she still wanted to help him. How sick was that?

After a few hours of running through the scene in her mind, replaying her mistakes, she finally deluded herself into believing she had simply been too exhausted to adequately deal with him. If she had gone into work that morning instead of calling in, the same thing likely would have happened. There had been no way to prevent it. Only the location would have changed. She decided to not dwell on it.

When they finally dropped her back off at her apartment, she only had three hours before she would need to be back at Arkham. Joan had told her to take the day off, but Harleen wasn't foolish enough to make that mistake twice. Three people had died because she rescheduled him. No one blamed her, but she still felt the guilt.

Instead of taking a nap, she decided to just tough it out. Any psychiatrist had many hours of interning. Long hours, no sleep. She wasn't so far removed from those days. She turned on all the lights in her apartment and flipped on the TV to GNN. While Mr. J was the top news story for the 24 hour station, she was glad that they weren't dedicating all their coverage to him, for once.

After a nice shower and putting on her favorite red turtleneck over some tan pants, she felt more like herself. Lots of caffeine and a cab ride later, she found herself back at Arkham.

Joan greeted her, a mild scolding in her voice. "Harleen, I told you to stay home today."

With a shrug, "And deal with the same problem tonight?"

"I'm not going to let the inmates run this place," she responded.

Harleen put a hand on Joan's shoulder. "I know, Joan, but if I can prevent another disaster by simply showing up, it seems like the smart choice."

"It feels like we're giving in to hostage demands," Joan had her stubborn look on her face.

"There's nothing wrong with trying to smooth over a rough situation," Harleen said gently. She couldn't afford to be sent home. "My presence today will calm some of the patients, reassure the staff that the Joker didn't harm me, as well as reinforce that we run this place and not even a patient breaking into our apartments will change that."

With a nod of acquiescence, the women walked towards Harleen's office. She found herself giving Joan a watered down version of what she told the police, not really discussing how she felt about it. It was more about assuring her supervisor that even after he escaped, she had him under control in minutes. Joan was pleased.

"You're handling him better than I expected," she commented.

"You and me both but as we both know, sometimes just a different tone of voice or a different face can make all the difference in therapy." Harleen smiled at her colleague. "Plus I don't treat him with kid gloves. I think he appreciates that."

"I would love to see the videos of your sessions if you can send them to me," Joan said.

Damn. That wasn't the direction she wanted the conversation to go.

"There are none, Joan," Harleen said, truthfully, after a moment. Joan gave her a curious look and she continued, "If you haven't noticed, the Joker loves an audience. Almost everything he does is to play on the crowd. Look at his past exploits and you'll see the pattern. He wants to get a rise out of people. How did you feel the first time you saw his video sessions?"

Joan nodded again, not expressing her feelings on the matter, but conceding that the videos did boil her blood.

"Precisely. He likes the attention, knowing someone will see it. Removing that medium from the sessions was a calculated risk, but one that has paid off so far. I've found him to be more forthcoming without the camera around."

"Alright, Dr. Quinzel. It's your ball, I'll let you roll with it. But do you have any material from your sessions at all that I can review?"

"Of course, Dr. Leland. I've been taking notes through the entire process and I can email them over to you by the end of day, if you like." After some minor editing.

"Please do," Joan smiled. Impulsively, she reached forward and hugged Harleen. "I'm so glad you're okay," she said into her ear.

Harleen returned the hug lightly. "Thank you."

After Dr. Leland left to attend to her own schedule, Harleen found herself alone in front of her office, feeling relieved. Mr. J wasn't joking, in their second session, when he said she was a good liar. The trick to a good lie was to use enough of the truth to make it believable. Omission was the best kind of lie, which was exactly why she was so good at it.

She opened her office door, hanging her personal items in the closet. It was time to prepare herself for, what would most likely be, the more stressful part of her day. Another session with Mr. J.

* * *

><p>By the time they got him back home, to his cell, he was on his twelfth mental replay of the evening, dissecting every detail painstakingly, relishing every second of her quivering form in his hands. He would have liked to think that his mere presence, intruding into her safe zone, was the cause of her inner struggle but he suspected that it was likely a daily battle of wills. Her controlled side was simply used to winning.<p>

Dr. Quinzel was an addict.

Not in the traditional sense. No booze or pills but he knew the signs. Her motions were similar to someone who was going through withdrawal. Even more so, she showed the same symptoms of someone struggling against their desire to use their drug of choice. And for once, he got a glimpse of her without the mask covering her face. Her blind panic and fear of what she could become. Intoxicating.

The blade was the trigger, he had discovered. She had control until it pressed against her warm flesh, threatening her with pain. He wondered how she would react if someone else did the same, whether her demons only peeked through in his presence. No one else had done the slow dance with her, so likely her turmoil was his alone to enjoy. Except perhaps for whoever left her that permanent sign of affection on her throat.

The scar. It humiliated her when he touched it. He saw her cheeks redden, as if he had caught her in an intimate moment. Too ragged to be a surgery leftover and the emotional attachment meant it was extremely personal. Too shallow to have killed her. Her deep breathing led to that slight gasp when he ran his leather clad fingers over the flesh. Yes, it was a mistake. Whoever slit her throat wanted it to be deeper but failed.

The skin was soft, he could feel that through the glove. It had been cared for, stitches applied, although likely not by a professional, judging by the jagged ends. There was a feel of home treatment about the whole affair. Had she tended the wound herself? Grimacing as the stabbed her skin repeatedly with needles, sewing the flesh together? Or had someone else had the privilege? He needed to know.

It reminded him of his own scars and how...

Off topic. Something about the scar was a connection to whatever she was fighting. It was one thing to hide it in public. Another to hide it at home. No reason to own such a high necked robe, otherwise. She didn't want to acknowledge how it marred her flesh. And with the way she dressed and presented herself, it was possible that it had sisters somewhere on her body. Now, he wished he had ripped the robe off her, exploring every bit of skin.

Patience.

His time would come. The dear doctor would expose every part of herself if he could just wait, agonizing as it was. She needed to tell her story to someone. Saw that in those bright blue eyes, begging. Harleen thought she was asking him to stop. No, she was asking him to listen. Listen to her inner turmoil and help her be who she was meant to be. No more hiding.

Just one step at a time.

* * *

><p>"How did you…" Mr. J began, halting as she held up a hand.<p>

"No," Harleen said, lowering her hand back down to her lap. "We're done."

He stared at her resolute face, actually seeming to be surprised for once. "I don't think you want to do that, doc."

"Why not? Why shouldn't I? You broke the rules of our arrangement and not like they were hard to remember. You don't attack or harm me in any way. Last night, you attacked me."

"I beg to differ."

Harleen rolled her eyes, expecting that exact response. "While you may not have harmed me, you did attack me. And I don't care if your intent was malicious or not. The fact still stands. You broke into my apartment and came at me with a knife. That qualifies as attacking me." She held up her hand again to stop him from speaking. "My game. My interpretation of the rules, especially when it comes to that rule. We're done."

She saw the tiny motion behind his straight jacket. Mr. J was trying to get free. Again, not entirely unexpected. Harleen stood and walked to her desk, turning her back to him. While she hadn't planned every detail of their encounter today, she spent a good deal of time running the scenario in her head and had a good idea of what his reactions would be. Last night was the final straw, but not in their dance. He was right about that much. She didn't want it to end.

She also couldn't let him think that his actions had no consequences. So after a moment of staring up at her essentially useless window, she turned back to him. The straight jacket was off and he was watching her like a hawk, waiting to strike. Only the leg cuffs kept him from moving freely.

"We're not done." His words were matter of fact. Maybe he saw past her act, maybe he was stating his desire. It didn't matter.

"To be honest, this isn't even about the attack itself, it's about respect." He raised an eyebrow at her, curious. She continued. "I'm not talking respect towards me or my home. I'm talking about respect for this." She waved a hand, indicating both of them. "Our relationship, our dance. You disrespected it and that is something I can't tolerate."

Mr. J actually seemed to consider her carefully planned out words. Placing the straight jacket next to him on the couch, he stood. He bowed lightly, looking her in the eye the entire time. "I'm very sorry, Harleen. It will never happen again."

He actually sounded sincere. Her bullshit meter for his lies had gotten pretty good and she truly believed he felt some remorse for it. Exactly her intention. Her heart leapt in delight, as the first part of her plan succeeded. Now for the second.

She took a moment, before saying, "I forgive you." And she walked to her chair. Standing with only a coffee table between them, she extended her hand. He gave her a look, as if to say "seriously?" but took her hand. The warmth of his calloused hand encompassed her hand and she stared him right in the eye. "But you have to pay a price before we can continue."

"Really?" he said, looking intrigued. "What sort of price?"

They both continued to hold the others hand. She was waiting to him to either let go or yank her across the table towards him. Either scenario would have suited her fine. But after another second, he let go.

She sat down. "Because you cheated, you learned a valuable piece of personal information about me. I want the same. You need to tell me something real about you. Something important." The ultimatum was implied.

Mr. J sat as well, again, considering. More thoughtful than he had been in weeks. Maybe she was starting to rub off on him. More than likely he was deciding how to twist a lie to make it sound truthful, although she really hoped that wasn't the case. She needed something real. Something to validate the weeks of work, the time spent together. Just one thing to feel like she finally was getting to know him.

He licked his lips, the familiar smacking sound echoing through her office, and said, "I have more scars."

Something about the way he said it, something in his tone, the way his eyes met hers, hit her like a brick. They weren't shallow, or the reminders of idiot youth. No, his scars were deep, shaping his entire life, molding him into the painted clown of chaos. Tragic and horrifying, she found an unexpected connection to him. In his eyes, she saw her own pain reflected.

And it made her want to cry.


	7. Chapter 7: Mirror

Chapter Seven: Mirror

Harleen sat at the bar, her legs crossed, an untouched glass of wine sitting in front of her. She was alone, as always, just enjoying the ambiance of the crowd. It wasn't that she incapable of making friends, she just preferred solitude. And on nights when she felt the urge, she'd hit the local bar and soak up the atmosphere, the laughter in the air.

She never stayed long and never ordered more than the one drink. She tipped well and was always pleasant to the staff. She was just another ghost haunting the patrons but never affecting their lives for more than a second. All so she could feel the electricity in the air, the sense of passion, of love, of anger.

It made her feel more human.

The wine was there for show, to discourage others from buying her drinks. Her outside appearance was attractive enough to get looks, and the filled glass removed one option to talk to her. The few lonely, horny, or desperate men who approached her would be sent away with nothing more than a "I'm not interested" and a stern look. The one, and there was always one, who persisted would simply be ignored.

Ignoring didn't always work though. "Come on baby, let me buy you a drink." Some drunk who didn't know how to take "no" for an answer. Khaki's and a polo shirt. He looked to be in his thirties but still dressed like a college frat boy.

"No. Please leave me alone," she stated, not looking at him. Eye contact indicated interest.

Harleen never fooled herself into thinking she could let herself relax enough to be with another person. Man, woman, it didn't matter. In that one moment, she could lose everything and once she lost, she would forever be gone. Mr. J might know it, he might not. It didn't matter. She had to be strong enough to win and that meant never giving into temptation, no matter how good it felt.

"You don't look like you want to be alone," He slurred, grabbing her wrist. Her eyes narrowed.

"Please don't touch me," she said, catching the eye of the bartender, and taking off her glasses. She, then, turned to the drunk who wasn't smart enough to let her go. "I will not be taking any drinks from you. I will not be having sex with you. The only thing that we will be doing together is saying goodbye. Now let go of my wrist and find some other woman to hit on."

Nights like this, any kind of relationship seemed overrated. The drunk just didn't get the hint and put an arm around her, smiling. "You're a cold one, that's it. You just need someone to warm you up."

It was like a scene out of a bad movie. She nodded to the bartender who had been watching them, and in turn waved a hand towards the door. In moments, the bouncer was right there, saying "The lady doesn't want your company. It's time to go back to your friends."

The drunk looked like he was about to put up a fight, but basic human instinct mixed with common sense kicked in as he looked up at the large burly man in front of him, with fifteen visible piercings and arm tattoos. And he walked away, muttering under his breath. Harleen nodded her thanks to the bouncer and made sure to tip the bartender extra when she was ready to leave ten minutes later.

Harleen smiled at the bouncer as she left, heading east, back towards her apartment. As she rounded the corner outside the bar, she noticed the drunk smoking with one of his friends, dressed in the same frat boy uniform. Just her luck. But she just ignored them both and kept walking past them.

"Hey," he said as she breezed past.

"Dude, give it up," his friend said.

Yeah, it was going to be one of those nights. It seemed like she was having a lot of those kinds of nights these days. She walked quickly enough to be brisk, but not enough to seem like she was doing it on purpose. Turning around another corner, she heard the footsteps behind her and she stopped, turning around when "I said, hey!" came.

"What do you want?" She sighed. Really, she didn't want to deal with this. "Seriously, just stop bothering me and go back to the bar."

"You made me look bad in front of my friends." Oh great, he was even more drunk than he was ten minutes ago.

She looked him up and down. "You didn't need my help to do that. You're doing fine on your own." Harleen usually didn't provoke these kinds of delicate situations but she had passed the threshold of her annoyance meter.

A blow struck her face, knocking her to the ground, making her wish she had kept her mouth shut. Turned out he was also an aggressive drunk. A very aggressive drunk who had women issues. Seriously, who hit a woman for being a smartass? She felt, just for a moment, a twinge inside her at the pain in her cheek from his backhand. Anger filled her but not the rage of her darker self. Some drunken moron wasn't going to make her lose control. Not when Mr. J couldn't.

"You fucking bitch!" he shouted at her, irrationally angered, grabbing at her arm on the ground. "I'll teach you not to be such a bitch."

Smartly, she did what any other woman would do. She screamed bloody murder, as loud and long as she possibly could, before a second backhand to the same cheek made her bite her tongue. More pain. Delicious. Good, now it would definitely both look and sound like self defense when she took him down a peg. She was sick of being everyone's doormat.

Harleen wasn't a student of any fighting discipline but she had picked up a couple of dirty tricks from her past. Her angle wouldn't allow many of the sensitive areas to be reached. Really only one solution. From her position on the ground, she kicked his shins as hard as she could, forcing him to the ground. He screamed out in pain, falling backwards just as the bouncer from the bar and the guy's friend came into view.

Within ten minutes, the drunk was cooling off in the back of some police car and a nasty bruise was starting to form on her right cheek. The officer was the same one who took her down to the station the previous night. He looked at her sympathetically. "You're not having a good week, are you, Dr. Quinzel?"

"Tell me about it," she replied. "Is this going to take long?"

"Oh, but we really enjoyed your visit last night," the cop joked. She smiled in returned, wincing as it made her cheek ache and he squinted, peering at her bruise. "Oh sorry about that. You should get some ice on that as soon as you get home. And no, it won't. Since you're not pressing charges, we'll let him cool off for the night in holding and send him home in the morning."

"Thank you," she said. "I would highly recommend he sees a therapist for his anger issues. Preferably a male since he seems to have an issue with women. He needs serious help and possibly AA if this is a recurring problem."

"I'll see what I can do for you, Doctor." Behind the police officer, the drunk's friend was on his cell phone, looking extremely embarrassed. His posture also indicated this wasn't the first time something like this had happened. Hopefully the man would get the treatment he needed, and hopefully the shape of her heels in his shins would remind him that women were not helpless punching bags.

The officer was true to his word and thirty minutes later, she was back at home, staring in the mirror at her new mark, wondering how long it would take to heal. Touching it lightly, feeling the momentary flash of pain, she forced her hand away, reluctantly. Wanting to press in, to feel everything again, she resisted.

The temptation was not worth the sacrifice.

* * *

><p>The sickly purple mark marred her right cheek in a diagonal oval, almost perfect in its design. As if it was painted on by a master. He found himself staring at it from the moment he walked in, studying how it ebbed across her skin, where the purple met the yellow, the slight fading of healing. No baseline for how quickly her injuries would disappear. Happened sometime during the weekend. She made no move to hide it. Smart girl. It called to him to examine.<p>

As soon as the door closed, he motioned with his head. "Let me see," Mr. J said.

Harleen shook her head. "No, it's fine."

"Stop being a child and come over here, Harleen." No fear from her. She'd wanted him to notice, subconsciously. To want to touch it. She was figuring out his buttons as surely as he was figuring out hers. If his hands were free, he would have applauded her.

After a moment of quiet reflection, she moved beside him on the couch, her bruised cheek facing him. She removed her glasses. Up close, it wasn't quite the perfect oval, but rather a series of gradient purples to yellows in smaller circles. Knuckles. Likely a backhand motion. Not perfect knuckles. She was stuck more than once. His eyes narrowed. "What happened?" His question.

"A small altercation," she replied. "Nothing important."

A partial lie. With practiced motions, he jerked the straight jacket over his head and put it to the side of him. She didn't react at all except to raise an eyebrow at him as if to say "again?" But she didn't say anything, allowing him to reach out and touch her discolored skin. Harleen may not have wanted his touch but she didn't stop him from doing so or call the guards. Progress.

His initial light touches became harsher as he desired to see the imprint of his fingers in the purple as he pressed in and released, the white impressions fading quickly back to the bruised color. Amazing how flesh could change so much with so little force. She made no indication of pain but then, she wouldn't, would she? Part of the good doctor's charm.

"You're lying to me," he commented.

"Does that matter?"

"Today it does. Who hit you?"

Harleen sighed, pulling her head away from his hand gently. "Just some drunk who thought I wasn't being friendly enough. No big deal."

"Trivializing your injuries. You are definitely a doctor. Always healing thyself," he laughed, a lighthearted sound, pulling a tiny smile from the doctor. "Did you also stitch up that neck wound?"

Purpose behind every question. The seriousness of the question diminished by the jovial tone in his voice. Would she fall for such an easy trap? Good cop, bad cop, funny cop. No, she paused. She wasn't that foolish to be led down the wrong path. The real question became: would she tell a lie or be honest about it?

"No," she confessed. "Someone else stitched it up."

"They did a poor job."

She nodded in agreement. "Better than nothing, though. Have you ever wanted to kill yourself?"

Not the trap he hoped for but one none the less. Making her think about her injury. She answered one of his many questions before he asked it just by her question. She had cut her own throat. It would explain the shallowness of the wound, not deep enough to nick the arteries to kill her. It led to another series of thoughts. Why? How? Where? So much to think about.

Mr. J leaned back against the arm of the couch, putting an elbow up. She hadn't moved yet, able to create the distant aloof effect even inches away from him. "That seems like a waste of time and energy to me when my efforts are better served elsewhere. How did it feel, slicing a blade against your own throat?"

Her lips pursed, only a small motion but one he was watching for. A sign that the question made her feel uncomfortable. She had only made that motion once before when he asked about her sex life. He was slowly learning the edges of her psyche. Limitations were weakness. Comfort was relative. And he liked putting her on the defensive.

Harleen took a long pause before finally answering him. "It hurt like hell." She crossed her legs towards him, leaning against the back, putting her elbow up on the top of the couch. A mirror of his own position. Either the doctor was flirting or she was trying to establish similarities between them. Never did anything without a reason.

"How did it feel, slicing a blade against your own mouth?" Similarities. Admiration for her examination of evidence, lines of questioning. She had been thinking about him as often as he thought about her. Obsession was a two way street, she should have known better. Harleen saw too much of herself in him, thinking he saw too much of himself in her. Foolish assumption mixed with confusion.

He looked her dead in the eye, giving her what she wanted. "It hurt like hell," he repeated.

It might have even been true.

* * *

><p>For the next couple months, their sessions became a chance to grow trust between them. Harleen would allow him to remove his straight jacket and he, in turn, never made a move to threaten or harm her. Occasionally he would say something that would spark her interest, a fact that made her wonder if he really remembered much about his childhood, or for that matter, the time before he had his scars. It was becoming more likely that his current persona was born in the trauma that either led to or as a result of his scarring and the rest was lost in his own form of disassociate amnesia, a severe form of memory repression.<p>

Mr. J had indirectly confessed his scars were self-inflicted but she wasn't entirely convinced that was true. If his current self was a result of the scars, then the odds that they were self-inflicted dropped significantly. Outside trauma was a far more likely cause. Not that she based everything on statistics. She had done some research, consulting with a former Gotham General physician who specialized in scarring, just to gain some insight. His opinion was that the scars could not have been self-inflicted.

It was also becoming increasingly clear that Mr. J wouldn't benefit from repression therapy, her primary form of therapy, which forced the negative impulses down inside, allowing the original personality to have control. If he had no original personality to draw on, if it was lost in time and trauma, he wouldn't be able to revert as was required. The only way to use her techniques was to make him remember, which could be even more dangerous. She had some decisions to make.

In the meantime, she found herself becoming increasingly consumed by his case, his words, and his reactions. Her second bedroom had become a mini-shrine to his case, a place where she could sit down at night and think about what line of questioning to pursue during their next encounter. But even Harleen saw the obsession in her actions, and irony was not lost on her. Mr. J and her mirrored each other in so many ways now. It just took her longer to get there. And yet, they couldn't be more different.

After all, she was just trying to help him whereas he was trying to permanently ruin her.

In his own way, Mr. J was only proving to her how solid repression therapy was. The reason she was such a strong proponent of it was simply because it was how she, herself, existed. An epiphany of her psyche, truly seeing herself for what she was, she forced everything as far down as she could. Repressed the impulses that had caused too much harm to herself. Repressed her monster.

Harleen had changed, faced her problems and fought them back. Surely, Mr. J could too. If she could just reach an earlier version of himself, someone with morals who understood what he was doing was wrong, maybe she could make a real difference. Problem was, she had no evidence of his past, who he was. Nothing to use to gain a foothold in his mind. Normal methods included discussing events that happened in the patient's past. The police couldn't even track him down to an original identity. So there was simply nothing to go on. Since she didn't really believe in hypnotherapy, she was at a crossroads with how to proceed and taking a step in the wrong direction could be detrimental to the both of them.


	8. Chapter 8: Interruption

Chapter Eight: Interruption

Arkham was running out of money. As a privatized facility, funding came from loans, government grants, and donations. Ever since the mass breakout that led to the Narrows becoming practically inhabitable for several months, donations had all but disappeared because of the bad publicity, not to mention the cost of repairing the damage to the facility itself. And worried about the financial situation, Dr. Jeremiah Arkham's staff meeting for the month had listed the possible option of becoming a state run facility, which meant every single employee would be replaced by state workers. Most of them would be able to find work quickly, but the patients would suffer most of all as state institutions were less about working through issues and more about drugging the patients until they were comatose.

So naturally when the media took an interest in Dr. Quinzel, her employer saw a golden opportunity. The media coverage of the Joker's breakout from Arkham died down after that first weekend, but then some anonymous cop tipped off the media that Harleen had single-handedly calmed down her patient enough that he was willingly led back to Arkham with no more bloodshed. So not only did the media see an amazing psychiatrist, but they saw a woman who was young, pretty, and blond. Another person they could put on a pedestal to show the public that good still existed in the world.

Because she wanted to keep her employer happy and because she didn't want to see Mr. J fall into the hands of the state, she gave the media exactly what they wanted, hating every single minute of it. The acting wasn't the hard part. It was the constant intrusion into her life that disturbed her, the feeling of complete exposure, like she was naked before the world. With a past like hers, it could be dangerous, and not just for her. But between the interviews and her appearances at social events, Arkham had gotten enough donations to keep going for another two years.

So when she received an invitation to the so-called "social event of the year," the house warming of the newly rebuilt and renovated Wayne Manor, Harleen had no choice but to attend. Bruce Wayne and the people in his social circle were the richest people in the city, always willing to give a little to a good cause. Events like this were all about networking, making meetings for the future. And if she made enough of an impression, Arkham would have enough money to run for decades.

The trade off was worth it. Just barely.

Upon arrival at Wayne Manor, in the limo that Dr. Arkham had set up ("You're not going in a cab. I don't want them to think we're destitute here.") she found herself shocked by the amount of reporters on site, as if it was a red carpet event. In a way, she supposed it was, with all the rich and beautiful celebrities in attendance but it was a circus out there, one she was fully unprepared for. All Harleen could do was steel herself as best she could for the insanity that was about to be inflicted upon her. The media vultures were worse than all the patients at Arkham combined.

The driver opened her door and the sudden bombardment of hundreds of flashing camera nearly blinded her. She had gotten used to the flash of a camera over the past month but not quite as many, and she had to blink several times to adjust. Stopping for a moment as they demanded, to let them photograph her in a silky long sleeved, floor length dress that was a throwback to Victorian styles with a square neckline that rose at the back of her neck, she prayed her neck scar wouldn't show under the thick, matching red ribbon wrapped around her throat. Everything else was fully covered.

While a couple of reporters called out her name, likely desperate to get some sort of quote about her most famous patient, most were already moving on to the next guest. Harleen let go of a breath she didn't know she was holding. She ignored them with a fake smile plastered on her face and continued into the foyer of the beautiful mansion, giving her eyes some time to readjust back to normal lighting.

Dozens of people, some faces she recognized immediately, were strolling through the foyer to enter a ballroom on the left, wearing designer clothing that cost more than her yearly salary. While she had smartly opted to have a dress made by a local, high quality shop, just for this event, she almost felt diminished in the presence of such elegance and finery. Diamond necklaces, pearl earrings, gold everywhere. Harleen was out of place, in so many ways, amongst this crowd.

Not even Mr. J could make her feel this uncomfortable.

Harleen kept her smile up, as some people recognized her from the news, never once deluding herself that she was of any importance to anyone in the room. She was a curiosity, an oddity, something to be played with until they got bored. She simply kept her mind on her goal of finding more donors, and made her way into the ballroom, admiring the simple elegance of the wood in the home. The rebuilding looked spectacular, she had to admit. But how one man could live in such a large house by himself was beyond her.

"Dr. Quinzel," she heard from behind her and turning to see who addressed her, her smile became genuine.

"Dr. Elliot," she said in return, extending her hand to him.

Thomas Elliot was one of the few people attending that she knew from before her minor celebrity status. They became acquainted during med school and wound up serving long hours together at the same hospital for their first year of clinical rotations. She had moved on to psychiatry for her official internship and residency while he moved on to surgery and time made them lose touch. Thomas was handsome, wealthy, and single, every girl's dream. She was mildly surprised she didn't see some beautiful model hanging off his arm.

Shaking hands, he smiled. "A long time."

"Too long," she agreed. "How have you been?"

"Good," Thomas replied. "I've been very busy with work. I hear your life is much the same, too." He smiled at her, still charming as always.

"Yes, very busy. I didn't know you were going to be here."

He laughed. "Oh Bruce and I go way back to when we were kids."

"You two must have had a lot in common," she commented.

"Not as much as you'd think," he said. Something in his voice, the way his eyes narrowed just slightly, told her that there was some rivalry in that friendship. But not her problem. "I hear you've been treating the Joker," he said changing subjects. "What's he like?"

Same question, every person. "Intense. And that's all I can say without breaking doctor/patient confidentiality. I'm sure you understand."

For the next ten minutes, they continued to talk, catching up on old times, laughing about shared inside jokes about their work together. When she brought the subject of donating to Arkham, since Thomas Elliot was worth almost as much as their host, he seemed more than happy to help fund the place, "as long they keep you on staff, Harleen. You're one of the only women I know who has a mind like a man."

The years hadn't changed him. Thomas still as sexist as the day she met him.

He did her the favor of introducing her to some of his friends, who, of course, asked about her patient. She smiled, laughed, did everything right, and found herself actually having a little fun. While they were a little too sycophantic about Bruce Wayne, considering his drunken antics led to the fire that destroyed Wayne Manor, they were also extremely well-versed on a wide variety of topics, something she didn't expect from the elite of Gotham. She should have known better than to judge a book by its diamond-encrusted cover.

After an hour or so, Bruce Wayne made his entrance, giving a decent speech about the history of Wayne Manor and how proud he was to have it restored to its original condition. She found him fascinating, as he spoke with a lazy conviction, almost forced, as if he believed in his words but didn't want to express that belief. It was odd. Like a high school student in choir who loved the song they sang but looked completely bored on stage. Image was everything when it came to the Gotham elite.

Since Harleen was standing to Thomas when the speech ended, she was unexpectedly drawn into conversation with Bruce Wayne as he descended the stairs, approaching his friend. "Tommy," he said, shaking his hand and clapping him on the back. "Good to see you." Mr. Wayne grabbed three glasses of champagne as a waiter passed, handing one to her and one to Thomas. He probably thought she was Thomas' date, not that she cared one way or the other. "And who is your friend?" he asked.

As Bruce met her eyes, she could see he knew exactly who she was, but was playing the introduction card. "Dr. Harleen Quinzel," she said, holding her hand out to shake. He took her hand, turned it and raised it to his lips.

"A pleasure to meet you, doctor," he said and kissed her hand, releasing it immediately. No time lost in establishing his reputation as a playboy to everyone in the room, then. Predictable. And sort of cheesy.

"A pleasure as well," she said. "You have a lovely home, Mr. Wayne."

"Please, call me Bruce."

"And please call me…" she cut off as she heard the distinct jingle of her phone from her clutch purse. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude but I have to get this."

She walked away from the two gentlemen as Thomas laughed, "on call?" She extracted her cell phone from her purse and answered it as soon as she saw it was an Arkham number. "Hello?" She exited the ballroom, moving to a quieter area of the home.

"You need to get here right now," Joan's voice came.

Harleen sighed, not really wanting to know. "What happened?"

* * *

><p>"Time for a haircut, clown. Stand against the wall. You know the drill." Random guard X said. His name didn't matter. Neither did his existence. A hair cut. Harleen had mentioned something about that, hadn't she?<p>

Strapped in, trapped in. Another presence in the room. Nurse's scrubs. He was really starting to hate seafoam green. "Hold him." Sedative shot, not surprising. The nurse was weak, young, inexperienced. New. Never seen her before. She was scared. Good. She should be. He smiled at her as the needle pressed into his neck. Widened eyes. Let her enjoy that nightmare until he could unleash his.

Dragged, drugged. A line, seriously? Not a theme park ride here. Just a hair cut. A strange sensation on his inside. Not the usual sedative. This one was working, forcing its way to his limbs. This wouldn't do, not at all. The details were missing. Never miss the details. What hallway was this? Jabbed him, the tricky children. Harleen would pay hell for this. No, wait, Harleen wouldn't do this. Other doctors. Where was his girl? She was late.

In the room, cabinets, chair. Strapped in again. Lowered. Water on his head. Confusion. Flashes to something else, darkness. Fighting against the hands holding him down. Memory. Wouldn't do this again, not again.

Flash of silver. Scissors. End of the line. Not again. Violence, blood, the ripping of restraints. Arms free, legs free. Silver was his, holding the scissors in his hands, moaning on the ground. Leaning down, grabbing flesh, tearing flesh.

Laughter. Confusion.

Where was his harlequin?

* * *

><p>Harleen didn't have time to run back into the party to give polite excuses. She walked as fast as she could, locating her limo in record time, thankfully avoiding the leftover media vultures without much trouble. Within fifteen minutes, she was back at Arkham, a sense of dread and worry filling her the entire way, wishing Joan had more time to give her details beyond the basic rundown of the situation.<p>

Joan met her at the limo, walking swiftly next to her as they entered the building. "He's been screaming your name non-stop for ten minutes and he won't let anyone approach him. At least we think it's your name."

"Do I want to know?"

"You'll find out soon enough," Joan said.

"Any new injuries?" Harleen felt her social persona wearing off, the calm doctor taking its place.

"He hasn't moved except to defend himself against staff trying to reach him, so a couple of minor cuts. I've been trying to use some of the techniques you mentioned in your notes but no joy."

Of course not. Mr. J didn't respond to techniques. He was responding to Harleen as a person.

Joan smiled, sheepishly. "Sorry to ruin your party. You look lovely."

For the first time, Harleen realized she was walking through Arkham in a beautiful silk dress, red as blood, hair in a perfect twist with curled strands falling down her neck. No wonder the guards were staring. She looked completely different than she usually did, not even wearing her glasses. She mentally threw out any fantasy she had about changing into something more practical. She'd have to handle this emergency in her finest.

"It's okay, Joan. You can be the one to explain it to Dr. Arkham in the morning." She smiled back, humor a good reliever of the tension she was feeling. "To be honest, I'd rather be here anyways."

"Seriously?" Joan was surprised. They reached the door to where the barber had set up for the night. Harleen handed her purse over, immediately, to one of the staff. Her hands needed to be free.

Hand on the door handle, she looked to her boss."Yes. Here, I don't have to worry about being someone else," and then she opened the door.


	9. Chapter 9: Comfort

Chapter Nine: Comfort

Sprays of blood painted the room, blood trails all leading to the source, Mr. J. He sat on the floor, a dazed look about him, calling out the word "harlequin" every now and then. Yes, he was definitely asking for her, in so many words. When he didn't react to her intrusion into his space, she looked behind her where several staff members were waiting to pull the bleeding men out of the room. They would see if any of the bleeding men were alive and she indicated she was going to check the victims. The room, was a work room. Locked cabinets against the walls, a chair with straps to the side, the restraints still holding the remains of his straight jacket.

"I'm here. Mr. J," she said, for the first time revealing what she called him or rather what he asked her to call him. Joan had known, after reading the session notes, but in front of the staff, it felt like a violation of trust. She wouldn't let the guilt stop her, though. Saving lives was far more important.

She walked carefully in her heels, stepping towards one of the victims who was making gurgling sounds on the hard floor. She grabbed the ends of her floor length dress and bent down, carefully keeping the fabric around her bare skin, and put two fingers against the neck of the guard. The pulse was thready. Not strong. He didn't have long.

"Mr. J, it's me, Dr. Quinzel. I hear you've been asking for me." She said while standing back up, still holding some of the fabric of her dress. Her shoes were already covered in blood from the floor and her steps were cautious as she didn't want to slip.

A guard in the corner was watching her. Still alive and alert, a gash evident on head. He was quiet, slumped against the wall, presumably playing dead in case Mr. J's disturbed mindset wanted some more blood. The third victim was stomach down, faced away from her, blood pooled mostly around the head, the closest to Mr. J. No evident breathing.

"Mr. J? Can I please have some people come in and helped these injured men? I'll stay here with you the entire time." The bloody instrument in his hand. A pair of scissors from the barber. Not smart to use those with someone like Mr. J, even drugged. Some people just had no common sense.

He was near the center of the room, legs crossed Indian style, scissors in his right hand, his head bowed down, hair covering most of his face. "Would that be alright, Mr. J?" She took one more step towards him, crouching down in front of him. No reaction but a softer "harlequin."

She glanced back to her colleagues after examining him, nodding. He was out of it for now. "Only two people maximum," she said in a low voice towards them. Within seconds, the first victim, the one closest to the door, was out of the room. Harleen kept her focus on Mr. J, making sure he wasn't about to pounce on any of them, saying his name every couple seconds to assure him that she was present.

The guard in the corner was able to leave of his own accord, if a little jumpy, almost screaming when two more people came in to handle the last of the injured, behind Mr. J. They waited for her sign before proceeding. Watching him closely, she gave a nod. But as soon as the two staff members closed in, she saw a twitch. That was all the warning she got before he sprang into action.

Anticipating his reaction, she was able to stand a second before he did. With a shout of his name in admonishment, she grabbed his arm that held the scissors with both hands, forcing it upwards and away from the shocked staff members. Almost out of instinct, his other hand grabbed her harshly by the throat, nails digging in as he began to squeeze. Self-preservation required her to release his arm and yank at his hand, trying to prevent him from choking her to death.

She took an unsteady step backwards, hoping to get enough distance to shake him free. Her heel landed in a puddle of blood and slid forward, making her lose her balance. Harleen fell backwards, dragging Mr. J with her, his fingers loosening, unable to sustain their strong grip. The brief breath she was able to take before she hit the ground, immediately whooshed back out, as she used her tumbling experience to make her shoulders and upper back take most, but not all, of the fall damage. With a sick crack, her head smacked off the unforgiving floor, and a lightheaded feeling took hold, turning her world into something surreal. "Mr. J?" The words floated, as if they weren't whispered from her lips. 

Inhuman eyes looked back at her, his hand reestablished its hold as he scrambled to straddle her for better position. When the staff members tried to pull him off her, he slashed out with the scissors like an animal protecting its kill from other predators. Hisses of pain. Panicked voices that now sounded muffled. In this moment, the only thing in Harleen's world was her and the monster on top of her.

Harleen struggled, unable to take a breath, a tension building in her body as her world started to fade to black, remembering so much. Her first death, the change of self. The feeling of ecstasy. Something forced down long ago, rising to the surface. Something she wasn't prepared for. Wicked and strange, just like Mr. J. And it made her smile. She couldn't help it.

She felt her right hand reach up, moving the hair out of his face, feeling the life draining out of her, a sense of gratitude filling her. He reminded her of who she really was, underneath all the pretense. He would never let her forget. The one who would always understand her because they were the same. No more fighting. This was meant to be.

As she embraced her own death, she saw the recognition in his eyes. Mr. J came alive, woken by her smile, his face lighting up in pure wonder. Maybe it was her imagination. But what he saw wasn't the Harleen he knew and he appeared to resonate towards it. If she could have laughed, she would have. His hand slowly released its grip from around her throat and she sucked in air automatically.

Harleen started shaking again, trying to rally against the aggressive subjugation that was threatening her mind. With immense effort, she reset her mental barriers, striking back at her inner demons, sending them where they belonged. Another close call. Far too close. And it was getting harder and harder every time she did it. A shaky breath inhaled and exhaled for good measure.

A moment of panic hit her as she realized that everyone must have witnessed her near-breakdown but relief quickly filled her. They were so focused on Mr. J and the injured staff members that they paid her no mind as soon as she out of immediate danger. She heard voices commanding Mr. J to drop the scissors, moans of pain, and others talking about options.

She raised a weak arm to get attention, rasping out, "It's fine. It's fine." She coughed to make her voice louder. "We're good here."

Harleen's back was wet, blood seeping around and through her dress from one of the original injured guards. Mr. J hadn't moved off her, scissors gleaming with fresh blood. He recognized but still wasn't quite there, not aware. She lay there, her head pounding from the fall. She might need some time at the hospital to make sure she didn't have a concussion, although it didn't look like that trip would happen any time soon. Keeping herself alert, she refused to be stupid enough to pass out in front of Mr. J, not when she had this tiniest ounce of control over him.

She kept Mr. J's eyes, the staff carrying out the last of the original victims, making small noises at their own cuts. She heard Joan say "Dr. Quinzel?" from the door.

"Close the door," she said, never removing her eyes from Mr. J.

"What?"

"I've got this, Dr. Leland," she replied, determination deep inside. "He's not going to harm me but he's not going to move either." He wouldn't respond to anyone else, the haze inside his head too intense to fight through. Joan would understand that, even if she didn't like it.

She could feel the reluctance in the air but after a minute of no one moving, Joan finally closed the door, likely peering through its window, keeping an eye out. Harleen kept eye contact with her patient, who was breathing heavily, watching her.

"Mr. J? It's just you and me now. No one else. You're safe here."

What the hell had they given him? Obviously a sedative but not one she prescribed. It must have interacted with his current medications in some way. She would check the list as soon as she was out of here. The other doctors should have known better than to mess with Mr. J's regiment without consulting her first.

"Harlequin?" Not screaming, just a simple question from him.

"Yes, it's me." Sometimes playing along was the best answer, much like dealing with Alzheimer's patients. "I'm here. Can you please put down the scissors?" 

His eyes moved off her for the first time, seeing the sharp objects in his hand. He smiled, as if he forgot he had them and shifted them towards her face. Harleen raised her left hand, very slowly, intercepting. "I'm going to take these but they are still here if you need them. I'm just keeping them safe for you, okay?" Her words might have sounded like she was talking to a child, but she made sure to keep her calm, controlled voice, sounding perfectly at ease. No need to alarm him or talk down to him.

After a moment, his grip eased on the scissors, allowing her to take them away. She shifted slightly, placing them under her body in the small of her back where they wouldn't accidentally cut into her skin. Out of sight, out of mind, hopefully. From out in the hallway, Harleen could have sworn she heard a "whoop" sound, a noise of celebration. It was quite possible.

"Thank you Mr. J. I appreciate your gesture. Now, would you be willing to move off me? I'd like to stand up."

Not so much. He didn't so much as blink, frozen on top of her. Her head was killing her. She needed to stand, get some blood flow going to her body. Now that the adrenalin was wearing off, she could feel the ache on her upper back from where she took the majority of damage. Not to mention, laying in blood wasn't exactly her idea of a good time. Not anymore. Not to mention it was extremely unsanitary.

"Please, Mr. J?" Nothing. Just kept staring at her. "Can you speak?" More silence. She could be patient.

"How about this? I'll move out from under you, but I'll still be right here. I promise."

He didn't have a look that said he objected, or minded, as she began to slide out from under him. Holding the scissors tight between her hand and the floor, she raised her upper body up, fighting against the ache in her back. Every moment slow, designed to show she was unafraid and also not a threat. Her face came within inches of his, the meeting of their eyes still continuous. When he didn't force her back down to the ground, she nudged her heels off and very cautiously moved her legs out from under his, slowly moving backwards in the process. He kept watching her but did nothing. A good sign.

The blood from the ground smeared across her legs, but at this point, it didn't matter. She probably looked like a horror movie victim from behind, feeling a drip of liquid hit her shoulder from her loose hair. She imagined no one else in the institute would be able to handle this situation as calmly as her. Of course, no one else at Arkham had ever been through it before. Being a doctor desensitized a lot of people to blood but not at the crawling-around-in-it level.

As if he realized she wasn't under him anymore, he reached under him, grabbing her slowly moving ankle. "It's okay, Mr. J. I'm not leaving you," she said, his grip still strong. "I'm still right here. If it makes you feel better, you can hold my ankle."

She waved her hand towards the door, which she heard open immediately at her signal. "Can you please get me an icepack and some acetaminophen, water with that?"

"Are you alright?" Joan's voice came back, worried but very much on it. "Can we take him back to his cell?"

"I'm fine, and not just yet. I don't think he's ready." Harleen didn't once look towards the door, maintaining eye contact with Mr. J to assure him.

"Any of that blood yours?" 

"I don't believe so but I did hit my head pretty hard. We'll have to check later."

"Okay, be back in a few minutes." The door closed again.

Harleen settled back for the wait, feeling less woozy now that she was upright. She placed her hands behind her, leaning back on her arms, placing her upper body weight on them. It took a lot of the strain off her aching back. She discovered quickly that the silk of her dress offered little warmth from the chilly air in the room, and amplified by the wet fabric against her skin, she felt goosebumps forming from her shoulders down to her feet.

Mr. J moved.

It was subtle but it made her take notice instantly. The goosebumps on her ankle elicited a strange response from him, as his thumb slowly stroked her ankle. Up and down. Up and down. Which in turn caused her hypersensitive skin to form goosebumps again, slithering from her ankle all the way up her body, over and over. Fighting the initial impulse to yank her ankle out of his grip, she relaxed, allowing the constant flow of sensation across her body and after awhile it became annoying, disturbing, and just the tiniest bit erotic.

There was something in his touch. Something more there. Not sexual, thankfully, but not entirely innocent either. He had a purpose behind it, but not planned, more like an instinct. And it dawned on her after a moment. Comfort, of course. Human beings needed the feel, the touch of others to exist, to feel part of something. It might have been her imagination but she could have sworn she could see the desperation in his eyes. The need for real human contact, not created by his violence. Mr. J was just as lonely as everyone else in the world.

The drugs had lowered his defenses, allowing her this one glimpse into his subconscious, something she couldn't get with their usual therapy. It was a gift. Something she could use to help open him up in the future, not a weapon but a tool. She would have a lot to think about later, how to work with this new knowledge.

Harleen also realized that not anyone would evoke this reaction from Mr. J. His recognition of her, his trust, was a key factor. Everyone needed comfort, and who did people turn to for their comfort? Loved ones, in some way. Which meant deep down, Mr. J was still capable of love, something she wasn't entirely convinced of, before this moment. That he turned to her, showed that he cared for her on some level. It wasn't romantic love and she wouldn't even entertain that notion, but it meant she was breaking down his walls, slowly.

Finally.


	10. Chapter 10: Exposed

Chapter Ten: Exposed

When Joan returned with the items Harleen requested, she passed off the pair of scissors discreetly, hidden behind her body. She downed the pills and placed the icepack against the back of her head in case of swelling. Likely only a mild concussion, if it was anything, but she still had to be careful and treat it well. Mr. J kept his hand on her ankle but the stroking stopped when the door opened. Distrustful of others. He was, at least, a little aware of his environment.

Joan crouched down behind Harleen to inspect her head, since it appeared Mr. J wasn't going anywhere, moving blood covered chunks of hair out of the way. "Doesn't look like you have an injury here but we need to clean you up before I can say for sure." She put the icepack back into place.

"Thanks," Harleen said. "I really appreciate it. Can you please give me a few more minutes? I think Mr. J might like to take a walk with me once we're done."

A raised eyebrow from her boss, a little doubtful. "Are you sure?" She was likely worried about safety issues without his restraints on.

"Yes, please."

Joan nodded, exiting the room. Harleen turned her full attention back to Mr. J who resumed rubbing her ankle gently with his thumb. The motions never increased in intensity or speed. Just simple, almost hypnotic. If he kept it up for much longer, her skin would start feeling raw.

"Mr. J, I think it's time we got you back to your bed," she said to him, thinking of his current need for human touch. It would be difficult to escort him while trying to keep contact with him. Also, she didn't want Joan to think she was overly trusting of her patient so she had to keep it very professional, whatever she did. However, it wasn't as important as getting him back to his cell. After a moment, she decided on the best course of action and put down the icepack beside her.

She leaned forward, grasping his wrist gently and lifted it off her ankle. She expected resistance but he offered none. Either he also wanted to go back to his cell or he was simply comfortable with the warmth of her hand. With her legs free, she crossed them Indian style so she could get the leverage to stand, while holding his wrist. Once steady on her feet, she gave herself a minute to acclimate to her new standing position. A moment of vertigo. Once it passed, she leaned down to lift his arm around the top of her shoulders, behind her neck.

"Can you stand please, Mr. J?" She expected to lift him so she was pretty surprised when he stood at her request. He had shown no real sign of listening until now, and she had a fleeting moment of panic that Mr. J might have been faking the entire time, using his ankle rubbing to lull her into a state of trust.

The moment passed quickly when he practically slumped against her. Human beings, when limp, weighed a ton and she felt every pound he was fostering on to her. She just had to face it one step at a time. He followed her lead, his arm wrapped around her shoulder. Harleen adjusted her grip on his wrist to encompass his hand. It wasn't exactly the easiest position, especially with her upper back screaming out in pain as his draped arm pressed heavily against her newly bruising shoulders. But it was better than nothing. Slow steps, they approached the door, which opened for them, guards alert.

Harleen smiled as she passed the threshold. "Had a lot of practice doing this with drunken roommates," she joked to ease the very obvious tension. They offered assistance but she declined, not wanting to start another incident.

Mr. J staggered along as she walked down the hallway back towards his cell in maximum security. Joan ran ahead to alert the staff in that area of what was going on, leaving Harleen with Mr. J and two guards following at a small distance. Bloody footprints also followed them for some time until there was nothing left.

"You're doing good. Not long now, Mr. J." She squeezed his hand gently.

Entering the maximum security wing was a rarity for Harleen. Generally female doctors didn't go to the wing to keep down agitation from the many sexual deviants, misogynists, and rapists that populated the ward. The last time she had to come down here, some of the raunchiest, lewd comments she had ever heard were made in her direction. The male doctors on staff tended to handle the good majority of patients here.

But the ward was silent when they entered, the patients watching in awe as she passed with Mr. J unrestrained. They must have looked like quite the sight. Mr. J, in his prison reds, no straight jacket, being essentially carried by his female doctor, dressed to the nines, her entire backside and hair drenched in blood stains. She wondered what they thought, as not one of them could think of a comment to make. The absurdity of the situation almost made her laugh.

With one last turn, they reached his cell, already opened for them by one of the guards Joan notified. The squeeze was tight but she managed to maneuver Mr. J into his cell without banging either of them into the bars. Harleen moved him to his cot immediately, sitting down so he would do the same. Again, he continued to follow her lead. Good. Carefully she removed his arm from around her aching neck.

"Alright, Mr. J," she said quietly to him. "You're back in your own bed. Why don't you go to sleep for awhile and I'll check in on you in a little while." Still keeping her words normal tone, but still soothing, using her light grip on his hand as reassurance.

As she stood, she looked down, worried she may have left a bloody imprint behind but her dress must have dried. Silk had its advantages. She gently displaced her hand from Mr. J's, who didn't react at all. Hoping that was a good sign, she backed out of his cell, cautiously keeping herself faced towards him.

As if realizing his toy was gone, he sprang up to grab at it, quicker than she imagined he could be while under the influence of such a powerful sedative. Instinctively, she jerked backwards, out of the cell, the guards slamming the bars closed before he could pull her back in. But his hands reached through the bars, grabbing her shoulder, painfully. The two guards, long time professionals of Arkham, easily extracted her from his grip, but she heard the sound of tearing as part of the back of her dress ripped away.

"Close call, Dr. Quinzel," one of the guards commented.

"Yes," she said, turning back to Mr. J whose hand was still outstretched, a bloody piece of red silk hanging from his fingers. Mentally, she apologized to him for having to leave, especially when he had revealed so much about himself to her. Even if he hadn't intended to do that.

"Thank you," she said to the guards, moving away from Mr. J's cell. Across the way, Jonathan Crane was watching the situation with great interest. Noticing him for the first time, she said, "Hello, Jonathan. How are you doing today?"

Her former colleague smiled, condescension clear on his face. "Hello, Harleen." And being completely non-professional, he added, "Is this a new technique, drugging and hauling your patients back to their beds? Or is this just a case of counter-transference?"

Tired, she said the first thing that came into her head. "Jealous?"

He laughed. "Hardly. I don't like my women damaged."

The way he said it, she instinctively put her hand to the ribbon at her throat, a feeling of betrayal coursing through her. Did Mr. J tell Crane about her scar? How could he do that to her? She whirled, the desire strong to yell at him about violating her confidence, when she again saw the piece of fabric clutched in his hand. Then she saw the look in the guards' eyes.

Oh.

Her left shoulder blade was completely bare, the jagged lines running down her back, like claw marks, visible for everyone to see. The scars were an intimate reminder of her past. She flushed, humiliation flooding through her, feeling degraded in a way that she didn't think was possible. She had been so careful all these years and Mr. J inadvertently exposed her secrets to everyone. Her unexpected emotional reaction only made Crane laugh harder and she quickly strode back down the cell block, having nothing to say in return.

Every prisoner was still alert and watching her, judging her, each having something snide to say to her, now that she wasn't carrying Arkham's most dangerous patient on her arm. Most of the comments were lewd, but some of them were blows to her character. And it made her really angry. How dare they make assumptions about her when they were the ones behind bars? She was smart enough to fix herself but they were going spend most of their lives here at Arkham, same walls, same food. Harleen was better than them, even if some of her scars showed on the outside. And her anger translated to her face, tightening her face, a deadly fire in her eyes. She stared down every single inmate who dared to turn their mocking towards her.

When she reached the end of the cell block, Joan was waiting. Harleen passed her without a word. Let her see the scars too, why not? Her boss should know all her dirty little secrets, too. Maybe she should head back to Bruce Wayne's house and let everyone there have a chance to see the freak show too? Let the cameras get a lot of pictures of her past, permanently marked on her shoulder so she would never forget this humiliation.

Harleen was slowly growing beyond her anger, each thought pressing her closer to rage Her heart said, fuck it, but her mind warned her about the dangers of giving in to that side of herself. Almost as dangerous as letting Mr. J slice into her skin. Enough years of practiced mental discipline reminded her to listen to her logical side before her emotions ripped her apart and sent her down a spiral from which she would never recover.

So, after taking some deep breaths, she did the first thing she could think of to recover. She hit the showers. Like any hospital, Arkham had staff showers in case of emergency or for those unlucky doctors stuck in a long rotation. The dressing room was empty, as usual, and she stripped off her dress, no longer caring about it anymore, despite the money she spent on it. Making sure she was in a completely private shower stall, she lay some towels just outside it so she didn't reveal anymore than she already had. Within minutes, she had warm water sliding down her body, washing away the blood and her temper along with it.

Twenty minutes later, feeling she had gotten every bit of blood off her, she stepped out, wrapping a towel around her, covering as much skin as possible. In her anger, she had forgotten to grab a spare set of clothes, so she resigned herself to put back on the dirty dress she had come to loathe. But when she got out to the dressing room, the dress was gone. A set of scrubs was sitting on the bench in its stead. Joan. It had to be.

Harleen quickly put on the scrubs which were long sleeved, thankfully, and looked at herself in the mirror. The red ribbon was still wrapped around her throat and she kept it there, moving her wet hair to cover the area a little more, just in case. All her secrets were hidden again and she felt ten times better, though a small knot of worry still resided in the pit of her stomach, knowing Joan would broach the subject.

With one last glance, she exited the dressing room. Joan was waiting for her, leaning against the wall, her Blackberry in hand. She looked up as Harleen exited, giving her a smile. "I see the clothes fit."

"Yes, thank you," Harleen said.

"The dress?"

"Burn it."

"You need to be tested," Joan said. "Now or are you too exhausted?"

Gotham law for any medical institute stated that when a doctor came into direct contact with any blood not from their own body, the doctor had to be screened for a variety of illnesses, as a precaution. Most staff members at Arkham had full screenings once every six months, so it was unlikely Harleen had picked up anything, but the law was the law and Joan would follow it.

"Since I need to stay up for at least 12 hours," Harleen pointed to her head, where she hit it earlier, "might as well do it now."

Joan escorted her to the private labs on site, hosted in the administrative wing. They weren't used too often and they were staffed by temporary contractors when work was needed, but it helped to have them. Especially when they had multiple standard testings to do. They could avoid shipping the work out of the facility and keep the results on site.

As they walked, Joan said, "We found out what happened."

"Yes?"

"One of the new nurses we hired a month ago was asked to administer a sedative shot, my say so."

"Really?" Harleen raised an eyebrow. "And you prescribed a medication without my authorization?"

"Of course not," Joan said. "I chose one off your list and passed the note along to the head nurse. She assigned the girl the job of giving the shot, and apparently, nerves got the best of her. The Joker isn't exactly an easy patient to deal with, for most of the staff, and she accidentally selected the wrong vial."

"This is a big problem, Joan," Harleen said, after a deep breath to calm herself, anger rising again. Incompetence. It made her want to scream. "Did any of the injured die?"

"This time, no, we got lucky."

"At least that's something. I want to stress that any of them could have died because one inexperienced nurse didn't bother to read a label. The head nurse shouldn't have given her the assignment and she shouldn't have been allowed to work in maximum security. How is this going to be handled?"

"That's up to Dr. Arkham." Joan said, as they reached the lab. "Take a seat, please."

Harleen sat down on the examination table as Joan prepared the needle and vials for blood drawing. "Has he been notified of what happened?"

"I called him while you were in the shower," Joan said. "He wasn't happy, as you might expect, but was glad we kept it in-house. Raise your sleeve?"

Harleen lifted the sleeve of her right sleeve, a set of faded track marks from needles set into the fold of her elbow. She didn't mind showing that to her fellow doctor, who tilted her head. "I spent a lot of time in the hospital when I was younger." Not exactly a lie.

"Recurring illness?"

"Accident prone, actually." Harleen replied. Again, not exactly a lie. She watched as Joan tapped her skin, looking for the vein, wrapping a tie around her upper arm to make the blood drawing easier. A swap of iodine marked her skin yellow, cleaning it further.

"The scars on your back?" It was only a matter of time before she asked. Joan put the needle in, the first vial quickly filling up.

"Werewolf attack," Harleen said with a straight face, drawing a raised eyebrow from Joan. "I don't want to discuss that, I'm sorry. It was a long time ago, in another life."

Joan nodded, removing the needle after the second vial was filled. "I understand." She handed Harleen a small cotton ball. "Raise your arm above your head," she said out of habit, while grabbing a band aid. "I'll ask one of the lab contractors to come in and clear you on Monday."

"Thanks," Harleen said, putting on the band aid herself. "I think I'm going to head home and get some more ice on my head. Maybe take three more showers."

"Good idea," her boss said, as Harleen stood to leave. "And Harleen, seriously, if you ever want to talk about it, I'm here for you."

Harleen nodded, saying nothing. While it was a nice offer, she could never talk about her scars with someone who didn't get it. Joan would never, could never, understand. She could only sympathize while, likely, signing some involuntary commitment forms for Harleen. A strong desire to hear Mr. J's voice came over her, for a moment. He understood, even though he didn't know her story. She could see it in his eyes every time he learned something new about her. He'd been there. So sometimes when she was in a rough spot, she thought of him, and though she knew it was strange, the memory of his voice gave her strength. She wondered if he felt the same way.

* * *

><p>Hours later, his eyes opened to the darkness of the night cycle. Others in the ward were sleeping, snores rumbling through the air. The smell of copper. Blood. On him, his clothing. A scrap of soft cloth in his hands, from where? He lifted it to his nose, breathing deep. The subtle scent of Harleen, and more blood. Didn't think the blood was hers. Yes, he remembered, the screaming. All men. Not her. A shame.<p>

Damn doctors and their drugs. He couldn't remember the details. So important to see what others didn't. Gave him the edge. Mr. J stood, looking back at his blank wall, his mental canvas, as blurry images came to him. A delightful tingling across his palms, remembering his hands around a slender throat. Hers? Yes. The feel of more silk, a ribbon between them. Harleen gave in with that savage flash in her eyes, that beautiful smile. A flash, an image. He smacked his fist against the wall, wishing he had the details.

The silk in his other hand. Rolling it between his fingers. From her dress, torn off. His arm outstretched, grasping, ripping. Perfection in his grip, snatched away. The sight of her bare skin. Details, memories. Bare skin, red dress, silk in hand. Blood in her hair. From what? No distractions. Oh yes, those perfect deformities. One, two, three, four, five lines. Etched in. A human claw. Nails cut so deep they would remained carved into her skin forever.

Like an onion, she was. Peeling back layers, exposing her deepest secrets. Details. Deep but jagged, shortest line on the inside, a thumb, trailing downwards towards the small of her back. Nails raked from behind, not from the front. During sex possibly. No, couldn't be nails for such deep scarring, but rather something on the nails. He wondered if she screamed when they cleaved into her, if they scraped her bone, leaving a permanent impression inside as well as out. He imagined her waking in the morning to feel the tightness around her shoulder blades from where the muscles were shredded, fighting against that wicked smile he longed to see again. The real Harleen.

Determination. He would see those scars again. Soon.

Cackling laughter floated down the cell block, waking the other inmates, a nightmarish reminder that the clown was plotting again. An omen of the chaos to come.


	11. Chapter 11: Prisoner

Chapter Eleven: Prisoner

"Do you remember what happened on Saturday night?" Harleen wore white. She rarely did. Evoking innocence, purity, everything she could only pretend she was. Scarf wrapped around her delicate neck, no doubt also hiding the imprint of his hand as it squeezed.

"Bits and pieces. You were there. Do you remember?" He answered her. Stealing the keys to the leg cuffs was simple. When the guards left, he waved them at Harleen, as if sharing a private joke, or even a threat, before he removed the cuffs. Her mask was in place and she said nothing. Neither approving or disapproving. She wouldn't tell the guards and risk their relationship. He could probably do anything he wanted and she would stay silent. More progress.

It wasn't that she trusted him. There were boundaries and limits and either of them could and would cross them at any point and they both knew it. It thrilled him that she could just as easily break the rules. The good doctor wasn't so good, after all. Trust wasn't the key. No, it was that she was loyal. Harleen could have walked away at any time, with good reason. Creeping into her apartment, taking off his straight jacket, choking her, seeing her darkness. A strong woman like her wouldn't put up with it, normally. Loyalty. Some sick sense of sticking it out, trying to help him. Sure, there were reasons behind her, her desire to be heard, her need for someone who understood her, her mirror. In the end, the reasons didn't matter. Truth was, Harleen would defend him because she couldn't bear to be without him.

And they called him twisted.

"Every detail," she said. "It was an enlightening evening. Have you had any more side effects from the shot they gave you?"

"I blacked out, went to a fancy party, and had a romantic interlude with a rich surgeon. He could take me away from this cruel joke of a life I'm living, dealing with all these crazy people." Mocking.

"I see you read the paper, Mr. J."

"I have to keep up with all the current events. And you, my dear doctor, are the talk of the town, pulling a Cinderella. Did you turn into a pumpkin at midnight?"

She smiled. Just a small one, amused. Wearing her down. "Not quite, even though you tried to carve me like one."

Oh Harleen. She could always give him the perfect opening. And he took it. "I heard someone else got there first."

There. A slight flush to her cheeks, sudden, embarrassed, reflexive. Her mask unable to hide the physical reaction. No, not because he knew about the scars. She wanted him to know about them, of course. The flush was because he implied someone else told him. A sense of disappointment from her. Harleen wanted him to discover her secrets for himself, not from the gossip mill.

"Who told you?" she asked, her voice steady as always.

"No one." He saw the flush disappear in her cheeks. "It was an enlightening evening for me too." He tongue darted out. "Will you show me?"

A turning point. This moment would define their future. Would she or wouldn't she? Would she purposely let him explore her past? Or would she shy away? A sensible girl would walk away now before he learned the truth, stopping the chaos that would soon engulf her life. But no, not his Harleen. She needed it. Her sense of loyalty forbid her from saying no. She would stay. She would work. Deluding herself into believing it was helping him in some way. She would show him because she had to. To earn her own release, her freedom. Harleen knew her mind but he knew her soul. She would say yes.

A minute passed before she admitted to what he already knew. She stood and walked over to the couch, sitting down next to him. "I'm guessing you will obsess over this until you see them up close, and since I don't want a late night visit to my apartment, fine. Yes."

She carefully unwrapped the white scarf from around her neck, revealing the dark bruises lined around her throat. Four dark ones on one side, one large on the other. Four fingers and his thumb, one white scar running through it all, untouched by the deep coloring. At the end of each bruise was a red crescent moon, where he had dug in, maybe even drawing a little blood. No wonder her eyes lit up in his memory, why she gave in. Her inner addict must have loved every second of it.

As much as he wanted to reach out and experience the rush again, he refrained. No, the real show was coming. With a steady hand, she unbuttoned her shirt fully, pulling down the left side, her arm coming out of the sleeve. Layers. Underneath her blouse, a white, long sleeved shirt that cut down to the middle of her back, strapless bra. Nothing to impede his view. Harleen had been expecting this, wanting this, dressing to lessen the wait, made it so easy. Turning her back towards him, she swept her hand behind her neck to remove any loose hairs from her bun. So eager. Mr. J was pleased.

Five lines, so simple, so elegant. Not exactly straight, but straight enough. Exactly as his blurry memory depicted. Clawed into her skin. Very rough, but precise. Intent was clear. Towards the bottom, a sudden zig away from the line, shaking or convulsions the likely cause. Never tended, never treated. These scars were made to fester in infection, taking months to heal on their own. The skin tissue puffed up more than it normally would have otherwise. With his thumb, he ran down one of the lines to feel the rough edges, no stitches, ever.

From the angle shirt lay, he could also view more of her back, the perfection of change. Although her right shoulder blade was mostly covered, he could see the hint of the matching claw, the companion. She didn't stop him as he pushed the shirt aside to reveal the other half of her upper back. Yes, two mirrored marks, raked across her back. Two hands, yes. Hands that came from behind. Elegant in their precision and brutal in their execution. Mr. J was impressed.

He traced both claws with his hands, his nails exploring, playing against her scars. Knowing the span of the hands. A man's mark, too wide for a woman's hand. Given intimately from someone she trusted, otherwise there would be far more tearing of the skin as it trailed downwards. The feel of the protrusions compressing as he pushed harder against them.

Harleen's skin shivered and rippled slightly from the intimate probing of his touch, her breathing noticeably speeding up. He could almost see her face, even from behind her, eyes closed, lost in the memory of when she received these beautiful marks. Forced deep breathing. Harleen was fighting herself again. He felt her press backwards, ever so slightly, against his fingers. Yes, she craved a harsher touch.

New thought. New vision. The loss of control, the flickering of pain against her skin, missed it before. The human body can get used to pain. Tolerate it, even learn to accept it and like it as he had. Learn from it embrace it. Domination, submission relationships were built on that. But no, Harleen was different, so much different. She didn't just like the pain. She loved it, craved it, had to have it. It was her addiction, her Achilles heel. That was a big part of what she was fighting. Why the knife set her off. Why she smiled as he squeezed her throat. Something with how she received these scars crossed her wires so she didn't shy away from pain but instead reveled in it.

And her mask, contained that desire for the pain. All that control to stop her from feeling the beautiful agony of life. Made her remember that pain wasn't gratifyingly intense. Hating it instead of loving it. Until he came long to remind her of those satisfying moments. Pushing her to go further, her real self trying to take back her body, to feel every ounce of her exquisite torment. And now, with just the torture of everyday life, it was a wonder she could maintain such strong control.

The revelation made him want to tear into her back, break that control fully, so she could truly live. Patience. Always patience.

In the center of her back, impossible to miss even with her other tantalizing scars, another mark down her spine. A straight line starting from just below her hair line, disappearing under the top of her shirt, following her spine. He longed to rip off her second shirt to follow the scar all the way until it ended. Restraint. Harleen would show him everything, in time. The scar was darker, more red to it, likely burned into her skin from the style, almost as if it were branded but not quite. What interested him more was the faint, hard to see banding throughout the scar. Cause yet to be determined. Different. Striking.

"Are you done?" Harleen asked, her breathing evened out. Back in control.

"For now." He watched as she put her shirt back into place, leaving the scarf on the coffee table, turning back towards him. She still had that miniscule flush from before, automatic but no longer from embarrassment. Harleen had, on some deep level, enjoyed exposing her deep secrets to him. Might not even know she felt that way. He knew she should.

Licking his lips, "Did he use his nails to do that or was it something else?" A question with the answer already known to him, a test.

Harleen pursed her lips. Uncomfortable again. She thought about the question, cautious as always. He didn't expect her to outright lie. She needed him to know, after all. One day at a time.

"Metal claws," she confessed, her eyes casting downwards for a second, a shy gesture. They immediately came back up to him. "Are your scars as deep as mine?"

She had inquired about his scars before, the ones not visible. Never a straight answer. Wouldn't be, though, would there? Each had its own story, the bullet wounds, the knife wounds, something to laugh about, remind him of each moment. Deep, shallow, they were there. It was a pointless question. She missed the point again.

"The real question you should be asking is; did I enjoy them as much as you did?" He raised his hand towards her, with a smile, fingers in a clutching gesture. Instinctively, Harleen's hand went to her bruised neck, remembering his fingers around her throat. A perfect reaction. Just what he wanted.

Mr. J laughed. "Sadly I don't know the answer to that question. We'll have to find out some day."

Harleen had no response to that.

* * *

><p>"Someone's been a busy bee," Mr. J said, walking around her office, at complete ease. He had taken to stealing the leg cuff keys and freeing himself every session, now.<p>

Harleen didn't mind. Allowing him this one measure of freedom helped foster a safe zone in her office, where he could express himself and feel comfortable. After his display last week, she knew that comfort was important to him so she chose not to say anything to the guards. Truthfully, she found it a little funny. It was quite crafty that he was able to do it, too, with the guards none the wiser.

"What do you mean?" she asked, standing as well, leaning against the wall near the unused camera. She followed his every motion, careful to watch what his hands were doing. While it wasn't likely he would outright kill her, he could still give in to his curiosity about her secrets. Harleen refused to be caught unaware.

"You had dinner with him." The choice of words was jealous but he didn't have any visible anger. "Why?"

But even without the obvious signs, could he actually be feeling some jealousy? Obsession with her combined with his need to have someone to trust. He was looking for reassurance that she wasn't waning from her commitment to him, possibly. Moving in that direction, she said, "The dinner with Thomas was business related. Regarding funding for Arkham. Do you have a concern regarding this?"

It was the best phrasing she could think of without turning to a cliché question. Mr. J stopped at her closet, opening it up for the third time. Repetitive motions, figures. He wouldn't discuss his own feelings. Avoidance as always. "The Gotham Times believes your relationship with him is romantic."

"I'm not sure where you're going with this, Mr. J but I do know you're an intelligent man who wouldn't believe the words of someone paid to speculate," she said, also realizing it was an accurate description of her own job, ironically.

He gave her that look, the sharing of an inside joke, his mind going to same place as hers. He smiled at her for a moment before walking back to the couch and sitting. "Because you gave them something to speculate about." Again, his expression didn't match his words. The smile combined with bitter words, accusatory.

No, Mr. J had gone beyond jealousy, she was now sure. Possessive. Mr. J disliked her independence, the media reminders that she had a life outside of Arkham. He considered her to be his, an extremely scary revelation. No doubt understood by the patients at Arkham. Suddenly the silence in the cell block made sense. It wasn't their appearance. It was fear of what he'd do if they stepped out of line. God help any of them who laid a hand on her. Very scary, but at the same time, it invoked a strange feeling of safety.

Knowing she would need to tread very lightly now, Harleen removed her glasses and met his eyes, saying the words he wanted to hear. "Thomas is an old acquaintance from my days in medical school but I have no interest in him, romantically."

"Why not?" He asked. Damn. He was toying with her. Sure, possessive was right, but he was making a point as well. She couldn't see the direction, though, frustrating as that felt.

She pushed off from the wall, cautiously responding with, "If you seriously believe that I could ever be in a romantic relationship with anyone, then I have severely misjudged your powers of observation."

He laughed. "Because no one else will be able to deal with the real you." His point finally revealed.

She put on her glasses again, peering at him over the edge. He had an infuriating talent for turning the sessions against her, utilizing his own brand of detection to find the tiny holes in her words. Going in directions she couldn't anticipate or would catch her by surprise. She wouldn't dignify his statement with a response. Taking a seat back on one of the comfy chairs, she opened her month to ask her next question. But he cut her off.

"You're deluding yourself, Harleen, and you know it." He leaned down to lock his leg cuffs again. "You spend all this energy trying to be like everyone else when you know you never will be. You're nothing but a shade in their world, barely existing except for those tiny moments when you let yourself go. And you've forgotten the most important lesson."

Mr. J eyes captured hers with an intensity she rarely saw. "You can domesticate a tiger but it will always be a wild animal, waiting to strike." She ripped her eyes away from him, forcing herself to look anywhere but at him. He hit too close to home. Saw more than she gave him credit for.

"You're terrified of being yourself. Do you realize how foolish that sounds?" Slipping on his straight jacket, arms moving back into place, he tilted his head, "I may be the one wearing the straight jacket and cuffs, but in truth, you're the real prisoner in this room. And it's time you understood that."

A knock at the door ended their session, to her relief. After he was escorted out, she sat there for a long time, staring at the space he'd been occupying, wishing like hell she would walk away and knowing, she never could.

* * *

><p>Mr. J didn't stop smiling the entire trip back to his cell. She was finally ready. It was time.<p>

"Crane."

"What do you want, clown?"

"Showtime."

A smile from across the hall. "Good."


	12. Chapter 12: Unleased

Chapter Twelve: Unleashed

Paperwork was, by far, the worst part of her job. Session notes were one thing, but just in case of an incident, the medical board insisted all doctors keep meticulous notes and files on all prescriptions and treatment methods, not that she was always completely honest. Her only consolation as that she didn't have to deal with the insurance companies. Nightmare averted. At least it was Friday and she could go home and relax. Likely, she'd spend yet another night in her second bedroom, running through her notes on Mr. J, working through theories. Trying to find a way to penetrate his hardened exterior.

No, she wouldn't do that. She needed to get away from Mr. J, both physically and mentally, to reset herself as she used to be able to do. Harleen wouldn't let him consume her entire life. Her control was becoming more difficult, she had noticed. She needed the space, and she would find something else to occupy her mind. Maybe she'd hit up the bar tonight or have dinner at her favorite Thai restaurant, watch some mindless TV or go work on her acrobatic skills at the gym. It was the first weekend she wasn't on call in a long time, so she promised herself that she would enjoy it.

The alarms went off.

Lady Luck really was a fickle bitch and had a nasty sense of humor. So much for having the weekend to herself. Grabbing her taser from her desk drawer, now that she knew where it was, she went to the door and locked it. Protocol. Then she flicked on the walkie-talkie that sat on her desk, mostly unused, listening to the chatter. A lot of confusion and panic. "Man down!" Something about Crane and the maximum security wing, screams for backup. The background noise sounded like hell itself.

A few minutes passed while she nervously waited for instruction, less and less frequent reports coming from the walkie-talkie. It was obvious a riot had started but the slow speed of information meant that the staff was on the losing end of the war. From outside her door, she began to hear the muffled sounds of violence. The patients had reached the administrative wing. Crashes, sounding like doors being kicked in. Her nerves were on fire, waiting for the inevitable kicking in of her own door, knowing she would have to defend herself.

Jumping at the sudden sound of her phone ringing, Harleen picked up. Joan's office extension via called ID. Her boss' panicked voice came over the line. "Harleen, Dr. Arkham's orders are to evacuate. Make your way through the admin wing to the east emergency exit. Doug's outside your door right now to escort you." One of the guards.

"Thank you Joan." Harleen hung up. Didn't need to tell her twice. She grabbed her purse and unlocked the door when the knock came, relief filling her as she saw Doug the guard standing there. Her relief lasted all of one second before she realized he wasn't moving, or blinking. Doug was dead. Before she could react, his body fell sideways, having served its purpose, revealing who had been holding the corpse upright. She expected to see Mr. J's smile, the most likely culprit, but instead, before her stood Crane in his absurd mask. The Scarecrow.

Unexpectedly, a mist blew into her face, making her eyes water as her vision became slightly blurred. She couldn't help but breathe in, surprised. As soon as she did, she knew she was completely screwed. Crane's fear toxin. Fast acting, which meant she didn't have much time. She was already feeling the rapid burst of panic inside her, heart pounding hard. Harleen tried to calm herself with no success.

The Scarecrow's form filled the doorway as he moved closer to her, as if preparing for a second strike. Harleen backpedaled, his image becoming more sinister by the second, her initial panic giving way to real fear. Even though she understood what was happening to her, she was helpless to prevent it. Her calves backed right into the coffee table, her quick reflexes preventing her from falling. But an overwhelming confusion began to take over her mind, forcing her to sit in one of the comfy chairs before she actually did collapse. The room was beginning to swell around her, spinning as vertigo took hold. Making her nauseous.

"Please, make it stop," she whispered, grabbing her head ineffectually, as if the dizziness would vanish by holding very still.

Harleen was unable to resist the toxic effects of his potion, as much as she tried. Breathing exercises failed, her concentration shot, unable to find something to form a solid wall around her mind. The drugs permeated her and she felt them tugging at something deep within her. A barked laugh escaped her lips, involuntarily.

Oh god no.

Fear was one thing. This went beyond that, to her worst nightmare, a terror that she couldn't fathom unleashing for a second time. The toxin was crawling inside her, ripping at the barriers that prevented her repressed urges from taking full control. They fed off her trepidation, her inability to function, like a vampire, sucking away her mask. Harleen curled into a ball, screaming, feeling Crane's presence watching every moment.

He was stripping away her control in a far more focused manner than Mr. J had ever tried. Drugs. Oh yes, she remembered the drugs, not the same but still so potent, swirling in her head. Confusing her. She couldn't breathe deep, feeling helpless. Only terror awaited. And worst of all, Crane had no idea what he was waking up. She looked up, feeling the hot tears falling down her face, forcing herself to stop screaming. Harleen had to warn him. Make him understand. Not even scum like Crane deserved what was about to happen to him.

She rasped out, dead serious, "Crane, if you value your life…Run."

Falling back into herself, the fear fully encompassed her, removing any pretense that she had control of herself. Allowing her worst nightmares to come back, to reign over her, if only for awhile. Shattering all boundaries, her darkness took over, stretching its metaphorical arms as if it had been asleep. Finally, she could act on all those desires that had been festering under her skin for so many years. It had been far too long since she was able to truly enjoy herself.

Damn, it felt good.

* * *

><p>Harleen, so busy dealing with her emotional crisis, didn't notice him slip into her office behind Scarecrow, closing the door. It didn't take much to get Dr. Leland to call his girl to make things easier. The threat of some violence was all. Weapons gathered easily, knives, guns. And for being so helpful, he threw her in a closet and locked it so one would bother or murder the woman. Who said he didn't have a nice side?<p>

Mr. J grinned when she spoke to Crane, her words so shaky, full of panic, barely able to speak. She knew what was coming and took the time to warn her own attacker. Now that girl could tell a joke.

Crane held up his side of the bargain. An easy deal between them, one that required very little effort on Mr. J's part. The night he escaped to reprimand Harleen, he had to get his personal effects. Not much of a detour to take the mask and toxin from Crane's box and stash them away until needed. After working on Harleen for several months and discovering that fear could be the key to bringing out her true nature, he paid off Guard One to get the mask from its hidden alcove. Showtime. All Crane had to do was pay Harleen a visit, which he seemed eager to do, spreading his own form of insanity along the way. The resulting riot was one hell of a bonus to the real show in Dr. Quinzel's office.

Scarecrow turned around to face Mr. J. "She's gone. Not a lethal dose but she'll be incoherent for some time. Do what you like. I'm off to see Dr. Arkham." He almost sounded cheerful.

Behind him, while the arrogant man spoke, Mr. J observed Harleen raising her head again, a new energy crawling on her skin. An awakening. Not detectable to anyone but him, really, as no one else knew what to look for, but there was fire behind her movements. Especially when she stood, quietly moving behind her former colleague and jamming her hand-held taser into his back. Fluid motions. Predatory stance. A growl from her lips.

His body convulsed as the electricity poured through him. Crane collapsed to his knees, allowing Harleen to wrap her other arm around his neck. "You should have listened to me, you fucking idiot," she said, her voice husky. "I was trying to save your worthless life."

Then Harleen squeezed. He could see the strain in her arm as she cut the blood flow off to his brain. Not a killing gesture. She wanted him alive, for now. Already getting good. She held on until Crane passed out, dropping with him to the floor, maintaining her grasp. Certain he wouldn't wake, she removed her arm, stripping his mask off. With one last playful slap to the back of Crane's head, she got back to her feet.

A roll of the neck, licking her lips. Running her hands down her body. Stimulated by her own actions.

A quick tug, she pulled the braided bun out of her hair, rolling her fingers through her strands roughly. Loosening herself as she never did. Dyed blond again recently, an inch longer than it was in her apartment. Made him remember clutching it once for control. Soft and fragile, just like her. Well, maybe not now. As if sensing his thoughts, she turned to face him, a mischievous grin spreading across her lips.

Their eyes met, a hunger deep inside hers, as she slid her hands up her body sensually, pulling off her turtleneck. Almost dancing with the motion, revealing her light blue bra, she laughed softly obviously finding thrill in the gesture. Exposing herself to him, knowing he would be scanning every detail, committing it to memory. A tantalizing show just for him, giving him a taste of her past.

Her body was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen, a true masterpiece of human cruelty and artistry. Harleen had been the canvas for someone's brush, scars painted on every visible surface and no doubt hidden under her remaining clothing as well. A mixture of intricacy, purpose, and savagery. Every single mark more intimate than the next, a dream, a nightmare. Mr. J marveled at how the crafter was able to achieve such brutal originality without killing her. She was far sturdier than she appeared. Harleen did not disappoint.

The neck was as lovely as the last time he saw it, her throat still purple with the imprint of his hand, the initial exhibition of her scar circling her neck. A few inches below, resting between her breasts was an obvious branding, a diamond shape, as if pressed directly from a deck of cards. Darkened, like the line down her spine, burned into her permanently. A partial ring of scarring on her right breast, disappearing below her bra line, as if someone had bitten a chunk out of her.

On the skin directly below her bra, three lines on each side over her ribs, long, thin, no doubt from a razor. Obviously cut time and time again to create the scarring. A combination of diagonal, vertical, and horizontal slashes covered her stomach, erratic. Deep cuts, for the most part, a heavy blade. Most had seen stitching but not all, proof of the human body's amazing capacity to survive damage. How many times had she rested in a pool of her own blood?

Her upper right arm, the red imprint of a hand, a chemical corrosive was the cause, likely lye or some other alkaline. Her skin had torn off there. Smaller width than the claws on her back. Her own hand, perhaps. The other arm held a slew of tick marks, a counter. For what, he wasn't sure. They were carved into her skin, kept in order. Not enough time to count. Both arms at the elbows, looked like faded track marks. Was she a former drug addict? He didn't believe so, too bland, too normal, for his Harleen.

Around the sides of her stomach, leading to her back, more scarification, whether intentional or not. Flayed skin in multiple strips, almost elegant in design, a wavy pattern to it. Likely following the natural striations of her body but striking none the less. The amount of time to perfect the design, how long she must have laid there, letting the pain ease over her body as strips of flesh were painstakingly removed. He was impressed by her drive to endure such an ordeal. The size of the scarring, these wounds were reopened several times. It all led to her back, a canvas all its own.

Long blond locks covered the top half of her back and her shoulders but Mr. J had seen that part of the show before. The burned line over her spine continued down, disappearing into the top of her pants. The banding still evident, reminding him of a chain pattern. More cuts, stabs, little scars all around. Also disappearing into her waist band, two large scars, as if someone poured something on her. One smooth, one not. Fire and dry ice. He'd seen the damage both could do. Clever and extremely vicious. No doubt the hidden parts of her body contained more treasure.

Harleen had gotten bored with his slow analytical assessment of her form, opting to focus her attention elsewhere. She had been busy, rolling her desk chair over to Crane, a roll of duct tape around her wrist. Her turtleneck crumpled on the couch, taser on top. Details. She rolled Crane's prone form over and slid her arms under, lifting his torso. Tugging, obviously too heavy to lift on her own. She waited a moment and looked up and over, directly at Mr. J, annoyance clear on her face.

"You going to stand there gawking or are you going to get the legs?" Her voice was the same but there was a deadly edge to it.

A lot more direct than her normal persona, he noted, sauntering over to help her move Crane into the chair. The pleasant rip of duct tape through the air. Didn't take her long to secure the Scarecrow, topping it off by gagging him with his own mask. She had a nice sense of irony. Her work gave him a chance to view a few small scars, much lighter against her skin and harder to see. A tiny "HQ" carved into her back. Some had the look of nicks and scrapes, hardly worth notice, but deep enough to leave her skin permanently marred. More damage from her yet unexplained history.

Mr. J felt neglected. A lot of effort put into the show and Harleen was already bored with him, it seemed. No, her focal point was on Crane. Not today, not ever. Anger. Time to remind her. Her back to him. Like the first time he said hello to her. Snaking his arm around her shoulders, pulling her back towards him. Knife to her throat. "I don't like to be ignored, Harleen."

She trembled. Pressing back into him. "Do it. Do it. Cut me." Her voice was heated, lustful. Just the thought of the pain turned her on. "I want to feel the blade slice my neck. I want to watch my blood paint the room."

Tempting. So tempting. But he didn't do all this just to ruin her so soon. There was still mystery. Sensing his hesitation, her fingers gently curled around his hand, pushing the knife further into her neck in encouragement. He laughed, delighted at her willingness. Not now. He removed the blade completely from her skin, lowering it to his side. But she quickly spun to face him, anger and dismay evident in her face. Harleen was an open book of emotions now, everything showed.

He didn't expect the slap she delivered to his cheek with her delightful yip of joy. Impulsive. His own anger flaring up, he whipped her into the nearest wall in retaliation, her head cracking against the hard surface, though not as hard as he would have liked. Her sudden laughter floated out of her, like hells bells, beautiful but disturbing. She raised her hand to reveal she had stolen the knife from his hand. Didn't even notice. Quick and crafty girl. He wouldn't let that happen a second time.

She closed the distance between them, pressing the knife against his neck. Their dance, always continuing, never a dull moment. Harleen smiled, wicked, sensual, angry, everything changing. "Never put a blade to my skin unless you intend to use it."

Her eyes floated down to the blade, which she moved down, placing it at the hollow of his throat. Sharp pain, gone almost immediately except for the memory of the moment. Just enough to make her point, to leave him wanting more. Mr. J thought she would go for another cut, but instead, she removed the tip of the knife, replacing it with her lips, licking at the wound. Erratic and erotic both.

"You taste like pudding." She laughed again as she pulled back, dancing away from him. The glee in her eyes, that sudden shift of emotion. Always shifting, like she didn't know what she wanted, needed. Maybe she didn't. Harleen seemed to be floating in whatever current would take her.

Grabbing her wrist before she could get away, he spun her back around so they were face to face, shoving her back against the wall. She still held the knife, but he snatched up that hand as well, holding both her wrists above her head. Preventing her from moving too much. A playful smirk crossing her lips when she felt the hard steel of a stolen gun press into her thigh.

"A gun in your pocket and you're obviously happy to see me. You're a walking film noir joke." She giggled as he keenly observed her actions. Emotions going behind her eyes at a mile a minute. As if every instinct and impulse inside her was crying out all at once. Flashing, changing, always dynamic. So much internal excitability.

But behind it all, he could still see the intelligence of Dr. Quinzel. The knowledge of who she was. His doctor wasn't fully pushed out, not like a split personality. Instead, she was more like an addict, understanding she was giving in to the things that made her feel good, even though she hated herself for it. That hatred was evident to him, even as she laughed. Harleen was as torn as any other human being when faced with a difficult challenge, taking the low road instead of the high road.

"Somehow you found that part of yourself that was strong enough to say 'no' and were able to repress your darker half," he commented. "And Crane's toxin brought that dark half back to the surface." A bow of her head confirmed his theory.

Now the real mystery was how she came to be. Why did she give it up? Harleen clearly loved it. Loved her inner chaos. And she hated it, as well as needed it. Something changed to force her to take control. "What changed?"

Knowing exactly what he referred to, she smiled, her eyes piercing into him. Smile instantly turning into a contemptuous snarl. Emotions changing again on a dime. "You think you have most of this puzzle figured out just because you put the border together. Problem is, I like flipping tables and your pieces can easily wind up anywhere."

Switching her wrists to be held by only one hand, he growled at her. "Tell me."

"It's not story time yet, Mr. J. Besides, I haven't even had a chance to have any fun yet." Pouty lips. Her eyes cast upwards to where he held her wrists against the wall. "And it's been so long." Her right leg snaked up to wrap around his waist, pulling him closer to her, her expressions changing again. "I thought for sure you'd want to add to my scars tonight." Low, lascivious, aggressive.

She shifted slightly to close the gap, her breath hot against his skin as she leaned in. "Don't pretend that you haven't thought about it every night since you broke into my apartment. Dreamed about how you'd mutilate my skin in new and inventive ways." Her tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip, passion in every movement. "Wondered if I'd scream. Moan. If I'd orgasm against you." Her lips traced the line of his scars as she spoke. "Leaving a permanent signature on my body for all to see." He found himself unconsciously turning his head with her motions, her lips finding his ear, biting the lobe before she finished, "I promise you won't be disappointed, Mr. J."

Sexually aggressive, bold, her heavy breathing in his ear. He pinned her hips fully against the wall, a reflexive body reaction as she circled her pelvis, grinding into him. She would feel his growing hardness. Harleen knew how to speak his language. The thrill of seeing her blood, marking her skin for his own, watching her shudder at every press of the blade. He could create intricate art. Or make a mess of her entire body. He could drive her to the edge of death and she would scream for him to take it further. Muscles throbbing, tissue visible, the essence of her core exposed. Her promises, whispered in his ear, lured him in as much as her eager body. He could always get his answers after. And he wouldn't damage her. Much.

Mr. J reached up with his free hand to take the knife from her, trailing its edge down her arm lightly. Scratching her gently, a hiss from her lips. Her teeth giving his neck a quick hard nip before pulling back so she could watch as he followed the path to stop between her breasts. A tremor shook through her body, anticipation growing, a soft moan escaping her. Harleen's back arched, pushing her chest closer to the blade, trying to force a slice, a nick, something, anything, just to feel. A shake of his head, scolding. Not yet. He ran the edge, slowly, to her neck, resting it against the hollow of her throat. A slice for a slice, a small nick as she had done to him.

Her body convulsed lightly in pleasure against his, her ankle pressing harder into the small of his back with a whispered, "More." A taste of things to come, a small trickle of blood down her neck, a beautiful accent to the purple of her bruises. He could feel her body tighten in anticipation, her nipples growing hard beneath the satin of the bra. Releasing her wrists, his free hand grasped her chin, harshly, fingers boring into her skin, the feel of bone beneath her cheeks. Another convulsion. Twisting her head, side of the neck exposed. Her arms came down, one hand resting against his hip, the other on his back, her nails digging into the fabric of his jumpsuit.

Decisions. Where to leave a lasting impression. The tip of the knife gently scraping below her ear. Another nick, another pleasurable shudder, a gasp from her lips. It was almost less fun with her enjoying it so much No fear. No screaming, at least not the terrified kind. Yet, at the same time, it was exciting to know she got off on it as much as he did. That she wouldn't struggle or stop him. No limits. Mr. J could do whatever he wanted to her body and she would beg him for more. It made him want to wreck her completely until there was nothing left but a memory.

"More," her demanding whisper again, her shuddering hips reminding him of his more carnal needs, his own base human desires. The craving, wanting to hear her scream in pain and pleasure, underneath a passionate frenzied assault. Releasing her chin, he dropped his hand down low between them, flicking open the button and unzipping her pants. The hand on his back clutched tighter in encouragement, her eyes meeting his, urgency clear.

A sudden loudness interrupted them as the door was opened, the muffled screams and crashes of the riots, no longer quiet. At the disturbance, Harleen's ecstatic face turned immediately to rage. Her left hand, still resting on his hip, dove downwards to snatch the gun from the pocket of his jumpsuit before he could stop her, her leg back on the ground. Her head whipped, ignoring the knife still at her throat, a clean slice appearing from her ear to the center, not deep. No regard for her life at all.

So fast, each motion slowed down for observation, filed away to analyze later. A push against him, Harleen rolling against the wall, out of his grip. Gun switching hands. A primal scream emanating from her, filling the room and the loud bang of the pistol firing. Once, twice. A ping, through the metal of the door. The sound of impacted flesh, meat and bone torn, a cry of agony. Smoke. Thump. Body on the floor. Time flowed normally again.

Two steps by her, kicking the door back closed. Her movements jerky, angered. Empty of her conscience too. A cough, the victim still alive, moaning. A guard. Not from his ward. Seen only in the hallways, was always too helpful. Likely came in to help her get out of the building. Blood on the carpet, running out of a wound in his shoulder. Clipped him. The guard saw Harleen moving to stand over him, the smoking gun still in her hand.

"Please don't." Pain evident in his voice. "Please." Begging for his life.

A sneer formed on her lips, disgusted with his reaction. No hesitation. Harleen shot him in the chest, followed by a shot to his head. The double tap. She'd had experience with guns before, steady hand, no problems with the recoil. Silence followed as she stared at the dead man, her eyes examining him as she would any patient. The rage had already faded, gone as quickly as it had come. But what specifically had triggered her? The threat or the interruption? Unknown, yet.

Tilting her head, curious, as she looked at the dead man. A turn of her head, hair covering half her face, looking at him. "Give me the knife." Extended her left hand, palm up. Demanding.

"Man's dead, Harleen. Why bother cutting up the corpse?" Dead was dead, unless the cadaver could serve a purpose. Life was where the real fun came from.

She fired a round at the wall behind him, chunks of white exploding onto the floor. She, then, leveled the gun at his head. Always full of surprises. Resolute, determined. It was important to her. Emotions kept changing. "Knife, or the next one goes in you." A vicious smile from her.

Mr. J casually flipped the knife in his hand, placing the hilt in her left hand palm with a flourish, completely unconcerned. Harleen would have shot him, no question, but he didn't believe she'd go for a killing blow off the bat, not when she had subconsciously orchestrated so much to entice him in, to bring her out. Knife in hand, she tossed the gun to the ground, as if it no longer had any value.

Her eyes went back to the corpse as she put the knife in her right hand and raised her left arm in front of her. With a quick swipe, more of her blood flowed, adding another hash mark to her arm, muttering to herself. Yes, the meaning of the marks became clear. Ritual. Important to some killers and it was now obvious Harleen had killed many times before. The good doctor kept track of kills, adding marks to her arm, reason unknown. Seemed pointless to him.

A second swipe, more blood. Another kill not yet documented. Curious. No other dead here. Doubted it was for Guard One since she didn't murder him. Between phases maybe. A kill unintentional or a kill unmarked. Her skin rippled, her breath sighing out at that one. The first was more business. This one was definitely personal. Noted by the size of the mark, larger than the rest. Unshed tear at the corner of her eye. Very personal, very emotional. She pulled her arm to her lips and licked the blood off, closing her eyes. Silent prayer.

When Harleen opened her eyes, a grin flickered back, the deep emotion of the previous second lost. With a happy squeal, she bounced over to Crane, who was groaning as he regained consciousness, as if he were a gift to be opened. She shot a look to Mr. J. "Why don't you go play somewhere else? This one's mine."

As more emotions flickered across her face, the range of dark to light and back again, one thing became clear. Harleen Quinzel had no control over her actions, whatsoever. She was a slave to whatever came into her mind, acting on nearly everything. Anger, sex, destruction, death, happiness. Every emotion floated through her, put on like clothing and torn off just as easily. Completely contrary to everything she was before. Too much control to zero control.

No religion, no philosophy, nothing to define her but whatever emotion she was wearing at the moment. She lived on the whim of her insatiable desires. In this state, she would have no concern for anything or anyone, much less herself. No direction in life, aimlessly drifting forever. Worst of all, no sense of self preservation. No wonder she had been so terrified of herself. Harleen was more dangerous than any inmate in Arkham, save perhaps himself.

A moan from Crane under his gag, she licked his forehead before slapping the blade against the man's cheek. "You and I are going to have so much fun, aren't we?"

Mr. J slipped out the door without a word. With new revelations came new plans, folded into the old. Her purpose became clear, answers were needed first. Whistling, he pulled the door shut behind him, before the screams of Crane could join the increasing cacophony of suffering throughout the asylum.


	13. Chapter 13: Resistance

**A/N: I want to thank all my reviewers so far. If you've enjoyed this story, please take the time to let me know. I also love questions or criticisms. I can't improve if I don't know what problems there are! Again thank you so much for all your support, even those who are just following. It's good to know I'm not the only one with a twisted mind in this world! And trust me when I say, it gets a lot darker from here. Enjoy!**

Chapter Thirteen: Resistance

The familiar haze of drug induced sleep. Yes, she knew too well the strange sensation of waking from a dreamless nap. Her eyes cracked open. It was dark. Pain flared across her upper body, her neck. A chill. Panic. Where the hell was her shirt? She was in a bed. Her left hand seemed to be caught on something, metal and cold. Not caught. Handcuffs. She could hear the metal on metal clink as she shifted her arm. Legs and her other hand were free. It didn't make sense.

Then the memories came swimming back, recalling every detail of what she had done in her office. The screams, the taste of blood, the gun firing, finger on the trigger. The knife scraping bone, cartilage, tearing muscle. Crane's muffled cries of pain. The sound of heavy breathing. Her own exquisite agony, little nicks on her neck. The fevered rush of sexual energy as she clung to Mr. J. The anger, the rage, and the mourning. Everything rushed into her at once, sending her into a frenzy of desire as her dark impulses rose within her, craving release.

Shaky breaths. Harleen fought against the storm inside her, unwilling to give in to her temptations but unable to put them out of her already fragile mind. Hey body twisted in the bed, straining against the cuffs, as if she was trying to crawl out of her own skin. Maybe she was. She didn't know anymore. Banging her upper left arm against metal railing on the bed, she felt a flare of pain. She writhed against the mattress, savoring that sensation, until she remembered why her arm was injured, bloody. Her memorial. Guilt flooded her, giving her the strength to take some control of herself.

But it was precarious control, her hands shaking from the effort, sweat beginning to bead on her forehead. It wouldn't last unless she could find something to help her hold on. Her current situation didn't help at all. The handcuff may have made it worse. Knowing Mr. J was likely somewhere nearby most definitely made it worse. Harleen had noticed his very presence made it harder to hold on, as if his energy pushed into her, making her want to give in to all those dark impulses. His chaos attracted her.

Sitting up, she remembered Mr. J's eyes were the last thing she saw. Perched in Crane's lap, tearing off one of his fingernails, she had watched the anguish pass over the former doctor's freckled face. Torture in its purest sense, no rules, no reason except to satisfy her need for destruction. A needle slid into her neck, yes. The muffled screams of her victim dulled in her ears as she turned to see Mr. J's evil smile, intense eyes, and a "Goodnight, Harleen" before she passed out..

Her surroundings were not familiar at all so nowhere in Arkham. He had to have taken her off site somewhere. The mattress was held slightly upright, in a partial sitting position. Harleen's wrist was cuffed to the side of the bed, the metal railing. Both facts told her it was a hospital bed of some sort. The lamp on the bedside table was non functional, as she tried with her free hand. No electricity, burned out bulb, or unplugged. A cabinet in the corner, a chair next to it. A boarded up window on one of the walls, if her eyes were correct. A television hung from the center of the far wall. An older model. A very telling sign. But the most telling was the distinctive and pervasive odor of smoke.

Mr. J had taken her to the ruins of Gotham General.

Strangely fitting considering he blew up the location just because the good people of Gotham refused to kill some guy who wanted to out Batman's real identity. Mr. J admitted to her, during their many sessions, that it also served as a smokescreen for the escape of Harvey Dent. Wild claims about inspiring the late district attorney into acts of violence, but it was covered up. It was one of those times when she really couldn't discern any truth or fiction in his tales. The city opted to wait out the winter months before bulldozing the remaining structure, preferring spring to be the better time for groundbreaking on a new Gotham General.

"Mr. J?" No point in delaying the inevitable.

"Did you have a nice nap, Harleen?" The voice was in the room.

She squinted to focus her eyes more and saw the silhouette of his body in front of the cabinet. Very hard to distinguish in the darkness but now she could make out the white greasepaint of his makeup against the black. His shape was bulkier as well, not the Arkham uniform anymore. He had likely picked up his full suit again before kidnapping her. "It would have been better if it wasn't drug induced," she said.

She heard the scrape of the chair as he moved closer to her. "So then you wanted me to let you keep cutting on Crane? Don't get me wrong. It was a hell of a show. They'll have a hard time reattaching his ear." A chuckle and she felt his hand pat her leg. "I only have your best interests in mind, Harleen."

She thought on that for a moment. "Then I'm surprised you didn't let me continue."

"Your heart wasn't really in it." He placed the chair next to her bed, on the side where she was cuffed. "And if my dear old mom taught me anything, it was to be passionate about what you do. I could see that little spark of your morality poking through."

"So there's no selfish purpose on your part behind this at all," she said, her voice showing her skepticism.

"I didn't say that. You're all about the action, which I must say, is stimulating." His words and tone leaving no doubt what specifically he was talking about. "But your mind has the answers, not your body."

Harleen felt her face get warm, mortified. She knew there were transference issues on both sides, his continuing obsession with her, and her growing obsession with him. For both of them, their dance was the allure, always trying to find ways past each other's defenses for their mind games. It was never about physical attraction or lust, even when she allowed him to touch her, to feel her scars. She had to admit, though, that their constant plays for power against one another were arousing. And the baser instincts inside her craved the banality of the physical, whether pleasure or pain, pulling on that connection.

She heard the clicking of a lighter, followed by the spark of fire. Mr. J lit a large candle, setting it on the bedside table. The eerie glow of candlelight illuminated the room, allowing them to see one another. As suspected, he was wearing the suit he was known for, makeup smeared over his face. The unusually bright flame gave her the opportunity to look down at herself where she could see the smears of blood covering her body and her bra, some of it actually being her own. The wound at her neck throbbed in pain as the cool air of the unheated room brushed against it. Involuntarily, she shivered, a little from the cold, but mostly because the constant throbbing felt too good.

Mr. J removed off his long purple coat and lay it over her body, instantly warming her from his own body heat. It stank of fresh cigarettes, sweat, and blood, but she wasn't about to complain. She would have thought it an action of a true gentleman, normally, but Mr. J never did anything without purpose. A mind is stronger when it's comfortable and warmth was comfort. Trying to help her keep control. He wanted answers.

Harleen could feel, pressing against her stomach, the various metal pieces of his weapons collection. Secure inside the pockets of his coat. She could easily access them and he had to know that. "Why?"

"You won't use them," he said, certainty in his voice. He was right. Touching them would escalate her internal struggle tenfold and she wasn't about to do that, as much as she longed to feel the cool touch of metal in her hand. Running it over skin, delicate slices. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Closing her eyes. The strain was wearing her out.

"What changed?" he asked, again, referring back to their exchange in her office. No doubt he found her a perplexing mystery and pondered why she left her past behind, why she forced it behind walls, and why she wanted to be like everyone else. Part of her wanted to tell him and part of her didn't. Terrified she wouldn't have the emotional strength to talk about it. The memories could make her succumb to her urges.

A long pause before she answered, "It's complicated."

"Don't make excuses," he said, leaning forward over the metal railing to get within inches of her. Violating her personal space, as he loved to do, the danger implied as he spoke. "Not to me."

An involuntary whimper from her as she struggled internally, another trembling sigh. She almost couldn't resist that danger, wanting to surrender and let the darkness take her where it may. Damn. Mr. J had gotten better at manipulating her, giving her the choice between giving in to his unspoken threats and losing herself forever, or being honest with him and possibly tempting fate. Neither was a good option.

A bitter laugh escaped her. "Pick the lesser of the two evils."

He bowed his head, moving back into his chair. "Something like that."

"Our dance ends tonight." Melancholy filled her as she said it, knowing it to be true. Harleen wouldn't be able to hold on to herself for long and they both knew it. "Why delay the inevitable?"

Mr. J leaned forward again, frowning in contrast to his painted smile, resting his arms on the metal railing. "Acceptance. You need _me_ to hear your story, Harleen. You've had years to unburden yourself but you waited for me to come along."

He grabbed her chin with a gloved hand as she began to look away from him, not wanting to face his harsh words. "No, look at me. Be honest with yourself for once." His eyes pierced into hers as he spoke. "You spend all your time alone, except when you're at Arkham. You have no friends, no real ties to your family, not even a pet. Your apartment is barren, as if it's decorated for an open house. Your work feels empty, hollow, almost like a lie because you aren't really helping anyone by pushing your repression therapy on to them. They'll just explode one day as you just did, and you know it."

A smile crossed his face. "The only thing that's given you any sense of fulfillment is our dance. Because deep down, you knew it would always come to this, Harleen. You sabotaged yourself time and time again, just to give me another glimpse because somehow in that twisted little mind of yours, you've gotten the idea that we're the same and I'm the only one who can ever possibly understand."

A trickle, a tear out of the side of her eye as she knew the brutality of his statements to be true. Never expressed out loud but always there, tickling the back of her mind. Spending years searching for someone, anyone, who could appreciate the atrocities she'd committed in her past. Subconsciously, seeking out the one person she perceived to be more inhuman than she. She found that person in Mr. J. And always, in the back of her mind, a nagging doubt, the fear that she was projecting all her hopes onto him, molding him into what her damaged psyche needed him to be. Someone who could accept her. What if he wasn't that person?

"Am I wrong?" Her voice was a whisper, the hope, the fear obvious.

Mr. J laughed softly and her stomach dropped. He let go of her face, standing up. Abandoning her as he walked away, towards the edge of the bed. "You're missing the point, again. None of that matters. Vindication won't help you reconcile your mind." He stopped at the foot of the bed, turning to look at her. "Your audience is standing right here awaiting your narration. So, stop wasting time."

Licking her lips, she nodded. "Alright," she said, "but I want something in return."

"I'm listening," he laughed. "What can I give you in return?"

"The same thing you're asking of me," she said, giving voice to a thought she didn't know she'd had until now. "I'm not the only one with secrets, am I, Mr. J? You say I chose you because I believe you'd understand. But the same is true of you."

Mr. J watched her with his indecipherable expression as she continued. "There's something inside you that resonates towards me as well, otherwise, you wouldn't have waited so long to get me to this point. Part of the allure of our dance has been the exposure of our secrets to one another. Taking one more step towards the abyss, neither of us able to stop the momentum. You're as much a slave to this as I am."

Silence. The air became filled with tension as he stood silently at the foot of the bed, barely breathing, staring at her. Harleen pushed his jacket off to the side, moving to a kneeling position, as close to him as the cuffs would allow, ignoring the sensations growing in her body. "Be honest with yourself," throwing his own words back at him. "You need this as much as I do."

The quiet yielded sincerity between them, for the first time. No sound but the traffic passing outside and their breathing as they fixed their eyes on one another. Harleen, struggling against the barely contained savagery inside her, extended her hand in earnest, as she once did a long time ago. Seemed like ages since the day when she stood in front of him, telling him he had to pay a price to continue the dance. Similar circumstances.

Mr. J made his decision, taking her trembling hand, his face as inscrutable as always. "Deal," he said, tongue darting out to lick the side of his lips, taking her hand lightly as if she were too delicate for a real handshake. He dropped her hand almost immediately, confirming her suspicions that he was as uncomfortable as she was, in his own way.

She sat back, drawing his jacket over her shoulders to cover more of her body, acutely aware of her nearly nude form, shivering, though not from the cold. The darkness was approaching and she could feel its talons digging in. Something needed to change or Harleen would never be able to tell her tale. "Can you take off the cuffs, now?" The skin at her wrists felt raw, her overly sensitive flesh relishing the burning sensation inflicted by the steel.

He moved back to her side, looking down at her. "No."

Not the answer she was expecting. "Please?" Never hurt to be polite.

"Harleen, look at yourself. You're shaking. Sweating. Even though you don't see it, your face is contorting with effort every few seconds. If you are unrestrained, it will make things worse." He was so sure of his words.

Harleen had to laugh at his presumption. "Mr. J, you may have noticed, I really have no limitations and you handed me a jacket full of weapons. If I lose control and this cuff is still on, I will dislocate my thumb to get out of them." Her smile had grown hard as the frenzy within her amplified. "Then I will take one of your knives and make your face even prettier than it is now." The words came out and she couldn't stop herself from saying them. "Get this fucking thing off me." A involuntary growl. She tugged violently at the cuff, feeling herself slip further from control. Her eyes must have shown the desperation and the fury she felt because Mr. J, wisely, took a step back. It took every ounce of her discipline not to take up one of the weapons.

When she was able to speak again, she looked up at him, choking out, "it hurts."

"It always does." His voice was steady, his demeanor cryptic as always. Not for the first time, she wished she could see inside his head and understand where his mind was. He reached inside his pants pocket, pulling out a key. Gingerly, he took her hand, raising it so he could un-cuff her wrist. A click and the metal fell away, banging against the railing a couple times. He kept her attention as he turned her wrist over, viewing the extremely faint scar running up the length her inner arm, from wrist to elbow. One of his eyebrows raised in silent question.

Harleen shook her head. "Too early for that."

Dropping her hand, Mr. J took a seat again, gesturing, impatiently, with a gloved hand for her to start. She rubbed her wrist gently, the motion soothing her blazing nerves. Her control was back in place but she was fighting another war. This time, with her anxiety. Twelve years and she had never once told anyone her story, always full of lies or misconceptions, assumptions. Apprehension at just the thought of opening up.

How could she ever explain what her life had been? To express how someone had consumed her so thoroughly that she lost herself completely. The impact of the first kill. The rapture of her body being broken down piece by piece. The moment her mind exploded, changing her life forever. The feel of gauze taped to almost every limb as she was punished over and over. The bliss and torment of an orgasm laced with pain. The heat of the fire. The biting chill of his hand in hers. Where could she even begin?

Hearing her heart pounding in her ears, Harleen looked over to Mr. J. He nodded, as if giving her permission, the painted smile making him seem far more cheerful than he was. She nodded back in return, safe in the knowledge that her confession would mean something to him. Clearing her throat, she launched into her story, praying she had the willpower to get through it all before the horrors of her past reclaimed her.


	14. Chapter 14: Flying

Chapter Fourteen: Flying

"There's no feeling in the world like flying through the air," she said. "Maybe you know where you're going to land, maybe you don't. But when you close your eyes and feel that surge of adrenalin running through your body, you feel like you can do anything." A smile crossed Harleen's lips.

"It's why I fell in love with gymnastics. That rush when my feet would leave the ground and I'd soar through the air, feeling like a god, if only for a split second. I went to training every day and I'd leave feeling completely refreshed and exhilarated. A lot of the other girls thought it was a chore but I couldn't get enough of it. That was the defining quality that made me good. Like internationally competing good. I had a shot at joining the Olympic team.

"Like any good tale, all my dreams were shattered with a missed landing," she said, pulling her left foot up. She removed her shoe and sock, letting him see the sole where a tiny line of scar tissue lay in the center of her arch. "Lisfranc joint injury. Severe enough to end any hopes I had of a successful gymnastics career. I was only sixteen and of course, it felt like my world had fallen apart. To top it off, my parents were fighting all the time and using me as leverage against one another. My last couple of years in high school were pure hell on me, emotionally."

"Your arm?" Mr. J asked about the obvious suicide scar her arm.

"Came later," she said. "No, the only physical scar I came out of high school with was from the surgery on my foot. Psychological scars, though, are another matter." Biting her bottom lip, rolling her eyes while shaking her head. "Adolescence is bad enough. Add the failure of your life's dream to the equation, plus the guilt that you're causing your parent's divorce, yeah, I was pretty fucked up by the time I went off to college. I chose a school that was as far away from home as I could get, practically across the country. It ensured I would only have to cope with my history on the holidays.

"The initial freedom of college was deceiving though. While there are all these experience to be had, I also had to decide what direction I wanted my life to go. At eighteen, that's next to impossible but I settled on business. Practical, logical, and I wouldn't have to worry about having lofty dreams. I'd stay grounded where my injury landed me. It seemed fitting at the time. Although now, I see the irony, since I just traded one dream for another.

"But all colleges require students to take general education courses, including some social science courses. I chose Psych 101 to make up the credit since it seemed more fun and easier than Sociology or Anthropology. Since it was a general course, it was broken down into two sections. Lecture and lab. Lecture was what the professor taught, in an auditorium of a hundred or so people. Lab classes were smaller, and taught by his teaching assistants, a chance for the students to actually comprehend what the lecture material was about and do minor experiments."

"Minor experiments?" Mr. J interjected.

"Like understanding how illusions work, or getting your lab partner to do something they normally wouldn't do through positive or negative reinforcement. Basic stuff that only touched on the various areas of psychological study." Harleen shrugged. "I don't really remember everything we did. It was, after all, twelve years ago."

"My lab had an amazing teaching assistant named Guy Kopski. I had such a huge crush on him from the moment I spotted him. Blond hair, blue eyes, good shape, completely gorgeous. He was a doctorate student, working on his dissertation in his off hours. The class was just a way for him to earn some extra brownie points on his application to medical school. Thanks to the lab class, he noticed me, or rather my high school crush on him and Guy asked me out. Of course, it was frowned upon for teaching assistants to date students but for an eighteen year old, rules were made to be broken.

"I suppose, for him, initially, it was a chance to have some fun and bang an undergrad. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed that as well. After a few months, we found ourselves going deep, into a real relationship and we began to learn a lot about each other. Due to my focused life experience, there wasn't much for him to learn about me. Gymnastics was one of the only things I knew anything about. I doubt I was terribly interesting to him, but now that I look back on it, I think my limitations appealed to him, making me easier to mold.

"Guy's dissertation was about Freud's Ego Psychology theories, with his focus being on the id. I don't know how familiar you are you are with this, but Freud theorized a long time ago that our minds are essentially made of three parts. The id, the ego, and the super ego. The super ego is that part of us that's about social acceptance, creates our guilt, and is essentially our conscience. It's learned behaviors and actions. The id is a more repressed part of ourselves that is all about the pleasure principle, and about instincts, such as aggression, libido, and so on. The id starts at birth. Children have no concept of how things work. All a child knows is he wants something now."

"Seems very familiar," he commented.

"It should and I'll get to that in a bit. Continuing, the last part of the trio is ego, which is our reality filter. It sets into place as we grow from childhood, learning that we can't have everything we want right away. It also helps to balance the id versus the super ego, allowing guilt for instinctual actions, such as a one night stand or eating too much. It's how most people function, at least according to the theory. A few people will lean heavily towards one side or another. The super moral people at one extreme, the sociopaths at the other." That drew a smile from Mr. J. Someone who leaned towards the id. "And Guy was interested in that instinctual human mind and how it operated in adults."

Harleen licked her lips. "I wasn't knowledgeable enough to understand what he was working on, but I knew from the other students in class that he was offering some of them opportunities to earn some extra cash by doing tests and surveys. Standard practice in our field since college students will do just about anything for a few dollars. And since Guy was funded by the college, it wouldn't be anything extreme. I'd inquired about participating myself but he told me there was an ethical boundary since we were in a relationship.

"So imagine my surprise when, a few months later, he asked my permission to participate in a long term experiment regarding my instincts and reactions. He wouldn't tell me any details, as any extraneous variables could affect my behavior in the experiment. And, unfortunately, at the time, I did not understand experimenter bias and that using me a test subject was crossing a line. I wanted to be perfect for him. The important thing to me was that Guy trusted me enough to be part of the one thing he loved more than me. His work."

Harleen paused for a moment, a wistful expression crossing her features, lost in memory. Mr. J leaned forward to poke her leg, snapping her out of it.

"I got a little ahead of myself there. Sorry. At the end of my first semester, I was out of his class, with an A, of course, and we decided to move in together. We were both madly in love with each other and he had a lovely house just off campus that he inherited from his grandparents when they died. I wanted to be with him, maybe even marry him, so it was perfect. We were perfect. And a month after I moved in, that's when he asked me to help him.

"I trusted him completely so I gave him my blessing to start his experiment on me, having no idea what he was observing me for. The first thing he did was hand me a diary. I was supposed to log all my thoughts in there, as much as I could, especially if they were impulse related. Like if I had a sudden craving for yogurt or imagined what it was like to have sex with someone else. Guy made it clear that there were no judgments, no matter what thoughts crossed my mind. As he told me, 'Thoughts are not actions. We all have urges.'"

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. The longer she spoke, the more she felt the strain on her defenses, her hands clutching the jacket draped over her as if it was a lifeline. He didn't prod her, despite the impatience behind his eyes.

Keeping her eyes closed, she continued."The diaries were more difficult to keep than you would think. I mean, how does one person remember every impulse they have, but I did my best and Guy was pleased with my progress. I found, the longer I did it, the more I noticed my impulses. I thought my observations were getting keener but in reality, my urges were stronger and coming more frequently, like a crowd when it gets into a panic. It usually starts with something small and grows larger until it's out of control. It sort of felt like that.

"There was a reason for that, and not one I was aware of at the time. Guy had been drugging my food. He used to make me meals all the time so it wasn't out of the ordinary for him to whip up dinner or hand me a snack. I had no reason to suspect he had gotten a supply of various medical drugs and was testing them on me to see my reactions. He was aiming to remove some of the natural mental resistance I had to my id. The drugs subtly supported that. I still don't know to this day how he got his hands on all those drugs. A mystery left unsolved.

"In any case, my id was more accessible thanks to the drugs, but Guy wasn't seeing the results he wanted in my diary, believing it wasn't an accurate enough account. People just simply don't remember everything."

"Why didn't you notice the drug's effects?" He interjected.

"While I never had the chance to view the exact drugs he used, I assume he picked medications which would increase the dopamine gradually over time, so the subtle effects would eventually become every day for me. Kind of like how a coffee drinker gets used to having their caffeine in the morning. Guy's problem was finding a balance that didn't send my mind in the wrong direction since many amphetamines increase the dopamine levels too high, creating nasty side effects."

"And you never once noticed anything off?"

"Of course I did, Mr. J. Guy wasn't a doctor and he didn't have the training or experience to accurately assess a drug's reaction with a patient. Especially one who was healthy. But when any of the medications caused side effects, I just assumed I was sick. I had no reason to believe he was drugging me. Although I should have found it suspicious that, during this time, he'd often ask me 'Harley?' His nickname for me. 'Do you trust me?'

"I'd always answer 'With my life,' thinking it romantic. I really did trust him too. Which brings me back to his thoughts on the diary. Guy wanted to change things up, make it more personal and more hands on. He wanted a twenty-four hour study and I was more than happy to spend more time with him. Before, when I mentioned that I traded one dream for another, this is what I was talking about. Guy completely absorbed me, taking over my world. I would have done anything for him because he had become my new dream, my new way of flying." She shook her head, disappointed in herself.

"During this time, he continued to drug me without my knowledge, slowly increasing the medication, which in turn increased by libido, my aggression, and my hunger. All primal instincts. He'd let me gorge myself, or screw him until I got tired, or scream my head off, all the while documenting my reactions. Despite feeling overly emotional, I did feel stronger, more confident in myself.

"It wasn't enough for Guy. What I didn't know, not until after his death, was that his real goal was to remove all repression from a mind, allowing the id to take full control of the person, superseding everything else."

"He figured it out, I take it," Mr. J said.

Harleen chuckled, the bitterness obvious. "Not exactly. Not the way you'd think. After awhile, I think he lost sight of his original goal. You see, we shattered one of the basic principles Freud's id. The theory states that the id will do anything to avoid pain, and as you saw, that's not the case with me." A shrug. "Avoiding pain is one major part of the human psyche that's present in almost everyone. It's why people give in to torture or fear accidents.

"Guy's next step was to begin a reward and punishment system. At this point, it was near summer. The all day lock down had been going on for many months and the drugs had saturated enough into my system that I'd become almost child-like in my reactions, without ever realizing it. Guy's punishments were the opposite of my mindset and they started small. If I asked for food, he'd slap my hand, but he wouldn't slap me if I just took it. So I learned to take what I wanted. If we had sex and I started it, I could do whatever I wanted. But if he initiated sex, he wouldn't let me orgasm, would only fulfill himself. He knew my body well enough to know if I was close. Then he'd slap me or punch me, the pain instantly pulling me out of the moment. Eventually, it evolved into cutting."

"Evolution is a beautiful thing, isn't it?" Mr. J leaned forward over the railing, pulling the jacket off her shoulders, exposing her broken body. "Which one was first?" His eyes roamed the scars, trying to answer his own question.

"It doesn't matter," she grimaced as she fought against the urge to run her hands over her body just to feel the complexity of the markings against her fingers, remembering the soft tingle that her own light touches could create. A shiver passed through her body, her willpower barely strong enough to keep her in control. She slipped the jacket back on her again. "I'm sorry, Mr. J. It's too close, too personal to answer." Her voice was shaky.

"For now," he said.

Breathing deeply, she chose not to respond, instead carrying on with her story. "Although I wish I didn't, I know exactly why I let him do such awful things to me. Guy would always remind me 'Harley, don't you trust me? I am making you stronger' over and over. Trust. And, of course, love. I wanted to make him proud of what I was doing, and all those emotions became enhanced even more as the drugs permeated my system. Eventually I had hit my tolerance for the medications he had been slipping me. To continue those treatments, he would need to switch to injections. 'Harley, do you trust me?' I always did, not caring why he wanted to slide that need into my arm. I knew he wouldn't hurt me, not really.

"The heavier drugs combined with his punishments, so much of my mind became about the present and what I wanted. I learned to take everything, never to wait. Unlearning all I knew about politeness and etiquette, becoming more aggressive in my actions to avoid the punishments he would inflict. He was succeeding beyond his wildest dreams with my progress. However, the experiment changed Guy as well."

"He began to enjoy leaving scars on your skin." Mr. J's words showed his admiration.

Harleen nodded, trying not to let his reaction affect her. "Yes. Guy had become a sadist, often initiating sexual encounters with me just for the sole purpose of being able to punish me. And after awhile, I learned to relax as he worked on me, even finding ways to push past the pain and find the pleasurable aspects of it. I couldn't do that with everything, though. Not yet. And he became fascinated by my reactions, how sometimes I could orgasm even though he was causing me pain. And it began to consume Guy, more so than his original study ever had. He wanted to push my limits, see how far I could go.

"You've seen some of his handiwork. He became very creative, making his work last. And Guy would wait until I was on the verge of orgasm, just about to crash over, and then bite me, or burn me, cut me, brand, whichever he felt like that day. So I would experience the pleasure with the pain. And thanks to the work he'd already put in, combined with the increasingly high doses of drugs he gave me daily, I began to marry the pain and the pleasure in my mind, as well as my body. I wanted him to hurt me, begged him even, because I began to need the pain to orgasm. And since I was practically a slave to my impulses, I would do whatever it took to make it happen."

Closing her eyes, she said, "That's where my neck scar came from."

When she reopened her eyes, Mr. J's arms were placed on the top of the railing, rapt attention. "You said it hurt like hell."

"Oh it did." Harleen licked her lips, again, memory swimming through her, extremely dangerous territory, but she needed to get the words out. She had to tell him. "Guy left a knife by my hand while he was behind me. I think he wanted to see what I'd do. If I would take it to make myself feel more. I had been at the edge of orgasm for some time and I was waiting for a blow, a slap, a cut, anything to push me over. But Guy did nothing. Infuriating."

She could feel the anger growing inside, the memory becoming real to her again. "And I was growing more desperate by the moment, screaming at him to do something. I had become so reliant on him. And he just laughed." Her grip on the purple coat tightened. Her knuckles going white, her voice hard. "I became angry. I wanted to destroy something so badly just to feel some form of vindication. And by anger, I mean rage, blinding rage. So I took up the knife and I destroyed something."

"Myself. I sliced my neck open, giving into that rage, giving into my pleasure and the pain, all at the same time." Her eyes met Mr. J's, her voice became a whisper. "Words cannot describe the sense of euphoria I felt when every sensation combined inside me. It was the perfect moment when everything simply stood still and I became aware, feeling as if I could do anything. I understood everything and the world made sense. The only other time I felt anything remotely close to that was when I was in the air. Flying high."

Harleen stopped for a moment, expecting another fight inside, but nothing. As if her impulsive side wanted to pay respect to that memory as well, a tribute to the true moment of clarity. Mr. J seemed captivated by whatever expressions were passing over her face, removing one his gloves to wipe away a tear that was sliding down her cheek. The gesture from him wasn't meant to give comfort, but rather to show understanding, kinship. She knew in that moment that he'd had his own experience, an epiphany that changed him forever. And while it may not have been stitched on his face, it was forever etched inside him.

Neither of them spoke for awhile, each reliving their own vivid experiences, allowing the other to do the same. A moment of harmony between them where neither felt the need to push the other towards whatever ends were in store. And when she was ready, she looked back up to capture his eyes again. And Mr. J laughed. For once, she didn't find it creepy or disturbing in the least. Instead, it wrapped around her, digging into her core, until all she could do in response was laugh as well.

When their laughter died down, Harleen continued, the smile still on her face. "I passed out from the blood loss. And when I woke up, my neck was stitched and bandaged and there a new purpose to my being. I don't think Guy even realized what he'd done right away, what he created. It wouldn't take him long to figure it out, though."

Her smile faded. "I spent so much time worrying that you'd break me but really, all this control is like putting a band aid on a leaking pipe. It might work for awhile, but eventually, the pipe will burst. It was foolish of me but I'd forgotten. I was broken a long time before I ever met you."


	15. Chapter 15: Choices

Chapter Fifteen: Choices

"What changed?" Mr. J asked again. Always the same question from him.

"It's not as simple as one event, Mr. J," she responded. "A culmination of so much horror over time. I mean, certainly, there was a catalyst that pushed me to take control of my life. But the months of delirium were a long road towards that final moment." Harleen shook her head. "My mind never truly recovered from those days, despite all my control. I wake up every morning with urges that I have to shove down, as much as I want to indulge myself."

"You're an addict," he said.

"An interesting way of viewing it," Harleen said. "I think of myself more as a slave. An addict can, over a long period of time, overcome their cravings, until they only feel their urges every once in a awhile. My cravings never end. Beyond addiction to the point of compulsion. No matter how much time passes, I fight every day not to give in.

"Little tendrils, infecting my mind. I hear that need, crying out for release, and I can't stop it. I want to kill and torture, fuck and feel that pleasure through my body. I want to give in to every wicked impulse inside my head." She looked at her shaking hands, clutching his jacket for dear life. Harleen looked back up at Mr. J, sweat beading on her forehead, trickling down her face. "I'm damaged and I can never be repaired."

Looking down at her legs, she frowned, noticing one of her feet was still bare and getting cold. Choosing against her initial desire for comfort, for warmth, she took off her other shoe and sock, hoping the cold would help out her control. On days when she didn't think she'd be able to win, she'd create states that she knew her inner demons wouldn't like. Wiggling her free toes, she took another deep breath, feeling slightly better.

"A lot of what happened to me after I was broken is twisted into a blur. So much of it was based on want, on desire, or the feel of whatever sensation I needed, that it's almost impossible to distinguish what actually happened versus what I wanted to happen. Like being caught in a vivid dream." Harleen caught Mr. J's gaze lingering on the areas of flesh exposed to him, his eyes clinical in their study. "I'm lucky to be alive, you know. The sheer amount of damage my body took over that year would have killed most people."

"How were you able to survive it?"

"As I said, luck was a big part of it. But I also had a tough constitution from my years of gymnastics. My foot may have taken me out, but I suffered through a lot of injuries before that happened," she replied. "And Guy helped a lot. He wasn't a doctor but he did his best. I spent many days covered in gauze and bandages that he applied, too tired to move from loss of blood. The pain from the injuries kept me far more docile, though, since it keyed into my pleasure centers."

Talking about her body made the pain from her cuts intensify for a moment, not enough to cause her control any problems, but enough to make her groan. Mr. J looked her over and then got up, walking out the door of the room. From outside, she heard a pounding noise, like someone bashing open a door, then a loud crack, followed by the sound of splashing. She was about to get up and see what he was doing when he waltzed back in the room, holding two bottles of water. Likely from a vending machine that was never removed after the explosion. He passed her a bottle, placing the other next to the candle. Grateful, she opened the bottle and gulped down the water. After a few seconds of chugging, she pulled the bottle away, gasping.

"Thank you," she said, noting the bottle was half gone. She sprinkled a little water on her fingers and wiped her forehead, refreshing herself. Though tempted to wipe the blood off her body, she left it there, not wanting to aggravate the open wounds on her skin. She had survived far worse with no medical care.

"As you've witnessed for yourself, I have no sense of morality in that state of mind. And zero control. The only way I was able to stay off the radar of the police was because I could rely on the little bit of smarts I had picked up." She paused for a second, taking another sip of water. "I chose to spend a lot of time in the underbelly of the world. It made it all so much easier. Police don't care if a gang member or a mafia thug disappears. Hookers, drug dealers, all of them expendable in their eyes. So they became my prey.

"My desire for destruction would consume me at times. Something you obviously relate to, no doubt. I could spend hours just watching the different patterns of blood appear while cutting into someone. The scent of gasoline being poured. Observe the light die in someone's eyes as they screamed for mercy, their heart pounding so hard and fast I could feel it through their skin. Over and over. Now, I hear their screams all the time. It helps me hang on."

"You keep count," he said, moving forward to move the jacket off her left arm, hash marks visible in the light of the candle. Two new marks, barely bleeding.

"I do. Any psychiatrist would think it's my focus, my calling card, the one thing I do when I kill, no matter what. Like some serial killers mark their kills. Or how you leave a joker card at your crime scenes. But I know my mind better than that by now. If all this has taught me anything, it's how I work, how I tick."

Mr. J lightly touched the marks on her arm, seeming to count how many. "Even in your 'id' state, you retain your repressed guilt, morality, on some level. That's why you scar yourself, for the day when you could allow yourself to feel all that guilt." His fingers crossed over the open wounds, causing her to hiss in pain, but no sign of the usual internal struggle. He laughed quietly. "And there's the proof right there. All that guilt is linked to you, not your 'id' side. You need it."

She slapped at his probing hand, only hitting air as he moved his hand away. Mr. J shook his head. "Guilt's a useless emotion, Harleen. You should know that by now. All it does is make you less than what you can be and you're better than that."

"It's not useless. Not at all, Mr. J. What you see as weakness, I see as strength. Guilt is what allowed me to create this control, it allowed me to actually have a life, to do something worthwhile, and to stop wandering aimlessly, a slave to my passions."

"What life?" Mr. J was referring back to his cold truths about her life. "Being one of them? Feeling empty? No, no, no, Harleen, it's held you back for too long."

"I'd be long dead by now, if not for that guilt," she retorted. "My mind was too shattered to ever really survive for long. If not for Guy, I would be a footnote now."

"Yes, whatever happened to good old Guy?"

"We're getting ahead of the story. As I said, almost everything was a blur. But some things were just so important, I'll never forget. Such as our house being my safe haven. Guy always tried to encourage me to stay put in the house, but I wandered out all the time. But I went back whenever I left, slept in our bed, ate the food there. I don't remember him saying anything when I'd come back with burns or bruises or cuts, but he tended them as best he could, helped me recover. I had become akin to an outdoor cat. Just coming back for my needs and comfort.

"Guy watched me devolve, recording my movements, as much as he could, writing notes on my injuries. I'm fairly certain that the dissertation community would have had his ass arrested for a thousand ethics violations if he ever actually wrote about what he did to me. But I think by this point, Guy was doing it all for himself. For his pride." She snorted in derision.

"Guy was one of my constants. I loved him deeply but at the same time, my broken mind didn't really understand the concept of love. I just knew he was mine. I didn't really consider myself his, though. He couldn't control me, or stop me. No one could." She watched Mr. J's face change slightly, as a thought crossed his mind, but not voiced.

"I perpetrated some heinous acts. Nothing as grandiose as what you planned and performed in Gotham. No grand experiments or hunting the Batman. Smaller stuff, but just as insidious. I remember how one night, I wanted to see something burn. The memory is a little cloudy, but I do recall standing before a burning apartment building at night. I had made it happen." Her voice grew quiet.

"I could see a young girl in the window screaming as the flames caught up to her. She couldn't have been more than seven but I felt joy when she was consumed by the fire. Something innocent was destroyed and it made me happy." She choked on those last words.

Harleen stopped speaking as it hit her again, the scent of burning hair, the touch of flames licking her leg as she set the fire, the muffled screams and banging. And the panic in the little girl's eyes before the calm took over, that beautiful moment when the knowledge of one's death becomes certain. Harleen covered her face as tears poured down her face, trying not to scream against her palms as she wept. It overwhelmed her, the memory of the girl's eyes, something Harleen often saw when she tried to sleep at night. Guilt wasn't useless, no matter what Mr. J believed. It was good for the soul to remember wrongs committed so she could try to atone for her past in some way.

"I can't ever atone for that, not ever" she whispered against her hands. She didn't believe Mr. J even heard her.

She felt his bare calloused hands wrap around her wrists, pulling her hands away from her face. A scolding look on his face as he said, "Don't hide your face from me, Harleen. All this," he circled his hand in front of her wet face, "is your mask right now. Your words are truth but you still hide behind your guilt and your morality. This is why it's pointless. Because when you watched her die, you saw the ugly reality of this world and you laughed in its face and asked for more. Your mind isn't broken, Harleen. You aren't damaged at all."

A wide grin spread across his face, only half his face illuminated by the candle. "You found the one thing that almost everyone is looking for. Real freedom."

"That's what you keep trying to show everyone, isn't it? How to be free." Her voice felt hollow to her.

"Not everyone, not now," he said, letting go of her wrists. "Just you, Harleen."

"I don't want it," she spat out at him. "You see freedom when all I see is slaughter." She wiped at her face, wanting to make him understand. "Do you have any idea of how out of control I am when I'm like that? And when I say out of control, I mean I can't ever stop myself. If I think it, I do it. And while I'm sure that's a real turn on for a guy like you who thinks of this as freedom, remember, I could just as easily turn on you."

She laughed, a gruff sound. "What was your metaphor? Oh yeah. A wild animal waiting to strike. More like a rabid animal who doesn't know friend from foe. I look in the mirror and I smash it. And there's another point, how I could readily turn on myself." She could feel her angered hysteria growing, as she tried to make her point known.

"This," with a quick jerk, she revealed the scar inside of her left arm, "is self inflicted. I almost died." The marking that he had been so curious about started just below her palm and went up, almost to the crook of the elbow. Her words came quicker than before. "I lost so much blood, I didn't even need to rip open my second wrist to complete the job. Guy had to pump his own blood inside me just to keep me alive. And you know what the funny thing is, Mr. J?" Another gruff laugh from her. "I wasn't even trying to kill myself. No, I just wanted to understand why the veins inside my wrist were blue."

"Guy tried to help me, too late. Too late. Tried to give me some stability. Force his leash on me. But no, I wouldn't allow that. He was far too weak to control me." She laughed, this time more shrill. She was losing it, she could feel it. But she couldn't stop herself from reliving those days in her mind, from blurting out whatever thoughts came into her mind.

"And when I brought home some of my play toys, Guy lost it. Sure, it was okay for him to carve me like a turkey but my doing it to someone else, no, that was off limits for him. I couldn't help it if they died. Really, I couldn't help at all. I watched that couple die in the bed that Guy and I shared, gasping for every last breath like fish, loving every moment of it." Her breathing came faster, harder as she battled for control, even as the words continued spewing from her mouth.

"He watched as I killed them, screaming for me to stop, trying to pull me away from them. Too late, always too late for him. And then he slapped me. Punched me. Kicked me. And I begged him to continue, not caring as he nearly beat me to death. He was so full of rage. Blaming himself for their deaths because I was Frankenstein's monster and he was the creator." Her hands shook violently. She wasn't looking at Mr. J as she talked. His coat falling off her shoulders as she sat up fully. Harleen tried to breath, tried so hard but it was all slipping from her.

"Dead eyes. His dead eyes looking at me. Guy couldn't take the guilt, the pain. He screamed how much he hated the look in my eyes and now he no longer needs to see it." More tears, her hysteria rising even more. She twisted in the bed, folding her legs under her so she was facing Mr. J, looking through him as she spoke.

"Guy died because of me. What changed? That was the moment. I killed the love of my life, his body swinging from the basement ceiling, back and forth. It was a suicide but I may as well have dealt the final blow because I couldn't control myself. And then my guilt rose as I saw what I had done. I couldn't be this anymore." She held her hands out, indicating her current state. "I couldn't do that again, not to someone else I loved. Would I kill my family? My friends? Who else had to be hurt by my hands?"

A low moan came from her, a deep sadness, a howl of grief before she finally met his eyes again, feeling the wildness in them. "No one can control someone as extreme as I am. Not even me. Not anymore."

Tired from the struggle, she stopped fighting herself for a moment, just long enough to let something wicked through. Cursing herself as she grabbed his head, a hand on each side of his cheeks, Harleen pulled Mr. J towards her until she could feel his hot breath against her lips. No contact but close enough. "So you want to hear my advice about showing me freedom?"

Her nails dug in purposely behind his ear, eyes blazing as her inner darkness found a foothold, wanting to do very bad things to him. "Don't play with the rabid animal." And she pressed hard against his skull, as she closed the small distance to press her lips against his, capturing his lower lip between her teeth. With a growl, she bit down hard, needing to feel his flesh between her teeth, his blood in her mouth. The taste of lipstick. She wanted to rip her clothes off and feel the blood pouring down her chin as she fucked him.

His unexpected laughter against her mouth, combined with the unmistakable sound of a switchblade flick, shocked her enough to find a thread of control. Releasing her hands from his head, she scrambled backwards to the foot of the bed, as far away from him as she could get. Curling her knees up to her chest, placing her head on her knees, she closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, barely able to contain herself.

When she sneaked a glance, Mr. J had an amused look on his face, blood slowly trickling down from his already red bottom lip, down his chin. Her bite wasn't as deep as she intended, too little blood flow. Harleen could barely think, let alone talk, but she wanted to apologize. She couldn't get the words out, her mind full of potential actions she was staunchly refusing to take. Her eyes darting, looking for the weapon he pulled, despite the many knives in the jacket just a couple inches away from her feet.

Mr. J stood, the switchblade held with ease between his thumb and forefinger. His gloves were on the nightstand next to the nearly empty bottles of water, showing he considered this all personal, not the slight detachment he showed with others. Sort of flattering. The blade was invoking all sorts of images in her mind, some destructive, some sexual, none of them good for either of them.

Slowly, he circled the bed towards her, watching her as she watched him. Silence in the room, the only sound the shuffle of his feet and the occasional crackle from the candle. It was the end of this dance and they both knew it. Her story was told. Mr. J got his answers, whatever they were worth and she had made her point. She was far too dangerous to live. Even Mr. J had to see that.

The candlelight illuminated his face fully as he reached the head of the bed, looking down at her. She looked up in his unyielding eyes, her own filling with tears again. "Please kill me, Mr. J," she begged him. "I can't do it again. I can't go back."

A gentle hand ran over her hair, a calming gesture. She felt herself relax a little, just as his fingers grabbed her hair with a powerful grip. He leaned down, the knife coming up under her chin. Feeling so sharp, so good. Her precarious control was waning, her eyes pleading with him to finish it before she lost it again.

Pulling her head closer to him, his lips went to her ear, raspy words tickling her ear as he said, "Harley, do you trust me?"

Harleen froze, her tear-filled eyes widening in horror at that phrase, so easily released from his cracked lips. So many memories of late nights, hands and knives, fire and acid. The blue eyes of Guy, so sincere, so loving, wanting to push her further. Comforting hands of her lover entwining around her as she gasped in pain from another of his punishments. All to mold her into something horrific.

The words were chosen carefully by Mr. J, intention clear to her. He had no desire to end their dance, not when the steps could easily be changed. Shaping her into something of beauty to his eyes, her inner demons striking at his command. The symbolism was not lost on her. If she couldn't control herself, then he would control her, giving her the freedom to be herself, to stop worrying, to lay down her burdens at last. But she would still cause grief to others, killing and torturing. No longer at her whim, but at his. Compassionate and cruel all at once.

Mr. J wouldn't kill her but he left the decision in her hands, the options apparent. She could take her own life to escape, to remove the torment of the screams and crying that she lived with every day. To stop whatever madness Mr. J intended to inflict upon Gotham, using her as his weapon and his vindication. No one else would die by her hand. The high road. The better choice.

But she couldn't deny the appeal of giving in to the darkness, to letting it sweep her away into blissful oblivion, as their dance continued in a new direction. He would lead her down a malevolent path, but he would give her life purpose, a dream. It always came back to that, didn't it? It wouldn't be her dream, but he was offering his to share, his highest praise. For they complimented each other so well, true mirrors in mind and deed.

And she could finally let go of her morals, her ethics, and surrender to the emotions that she had blocked for so long when she pushed away the passion between them. For they had been lovers since the moment their dance started. Carnal physical needs pushed to the side for their mental foreplay, stimulating each other in ways that no one else ever would. It could finally be as it should between them, vicious, visceral, and vulgar. Mind and body.

Choices.

With one of her shaking hands, she reached up to gently take the knife from him. Her choice. Mr. J allowed her. His stare pierced into her, daring her to join him in the dark. Harleen's other hand came up to touch his face, feeling the rough edges of his scars against her palm.

"Never," she said with a sad smile and pulled back from him, pressing the sharp edge of the blade into her already marred wrist.


	16. Chapter 16: Dancing

Chapter Sixteen: Dancing

Mr. J had been very patient so far. He could have stopped her, ripped the knife out of her hand. He could have spoken, distracted her. Could have done so many things. Instead he released her head and let her choose for herself, a smile growing on his lips. Harleen, no Harley, wouldn't do it. She lacked the willpower to finish the job and her inner darkness, while oblivious to its own self-destructive qualities, would never willingly seek out death. She chose her path long ago and it was a true delight to watch her come to terms with it.

The scars across her flesh rippled with shivers as she pushed his blade against her wrist, no longer meeting his eyes. He could see the effort in her hand, straining to make the first cut but unable to press further in. Her breaths became heavy and loud, filling the room with her frustration. Fighting herself in a way she never had before. Harley knew what she should do. But inside, she didn't want that. She wanted his unspoken promises.

A scream of aggravation from her and she slammed the knife into the mattress next to her thigh. The control still fragile but there. Harley's face buried into her knees, the violent tremors coursing through her form, her fingers still wrapped around the hilt of the knife. Muffled cries, as she screamed into her legs. Annoyed. When she lifted her head, wide blue eyes met his, the uncertainty clear. Lost.

Then her fingers tightened ever so slightly around the handle of the knife. The only warning that she was about to strike. Leaping from her spot on the bed and slamming into him, Harley knocked him down to the cold floor. Darkness consumed them, out of the light of the candle, and she straddled his waist, pointing the blade at his throat. He laughed. Not the tiger but the lamb before him. Not crazed. Controlled.

"The real joke is you," Harley said, pressing the edge of the blade over the artery in his neck. Not hard. Part of her show. He allowed her this, seeing her intention. It wouldn't work. "With your scars and your philosophies, you feel so superior because you believe you know where the heart of the world lies. In decay and destruction, nothing ever lasting long. Everyone is inherently just like you, right?" Her hands were too shaky to hold the knife steady, the edge puncturing his flesh, just enough to draw blood. Pain flared, matching the ache from his bottom lip. Always in the present.

She didn't notice, finishing her line of thought. "But I've seen the real you, the heart of you, Mr. J. Those drugs knocked down your walls so hard, revealing your true self" Mocking laughter. "Your desire to trust someone, to feel comforted. You needed someone to hold you, clinging to me like a child. You're the same as the masses. For all that preaching you do about being ahead of the curve, deep down, at your core, you're as pathetic and needy as everyone else." He didn't remember that night fully yet but it didn't matter. Harley was trying to goad him into killing her. No, wouldn't let it affect him.

"I pity you," she said, leaning down so he could practically taste the venom in her words. The lighting behind her. Couldn't see her eyes. Was that real honesty in her tone?

Sudden and indescribable anger flooded through him. Even knowing what she was trying to do, he couldn't stop himself from ripping the blade out of her hands and flipping her over. Knees between her legs. Grabbing her head and pulling it up to him so he could stick his blade inside her mouth. He wanted to tear at her flesh, make her scream, make her see the monster on top of her. Make her fear. Not to be pitied. Never.

Harley didn't resist in the least, limp in his arms like any other victim. He liked them pliable, yielding. He appreciated them as they died, flashing emotions, those little things that made it all worthwhile. But she wasn't like them, not one bit. Harley would show him something new, something he'd never seen before. Mr. J opened his mouth to tell her the story she'd demanded so often from him. The only story that mattered. But he hesitated, seeing her eyes, now visible in the candlelight, victory shining back at him. No, not another victim. This was Harleen Quinzel. Harley Quinn. And she had wanted this.

Not for the pain but for the death, yes, he remembered past the red in his vision. Taunting him to bring him to this point. She couldn't take her own life so she was manipulating him into doing it. Tricky girl. So balanced with him, understanding what would set him off. Part of her charm. The anger died away and he pulled the knife out of her mouth, putting it back in his pocket, with a tsking sound, shaking his head.

"Oh, Harley, you're trying so hard, aren't you?"

She slapped him with another frustrated scream. Pain flared. Good. He licked his lip. One. Two. Her palms striking him again, the audible crack through the air. Went for a third but he grabbed her hand. Her other hand shot up. Three. No fourth, other hand firmly in his grip. The sharp stings faded beneath the makeup. As if hitting him would elicit a response. No, not even trying anymore. Harley was losing her fire.

"Kill me," she begged him when she could no longer hit him. His girl was crying again. Really crying, pushing against his arms, stronger than she looked. Body wracked with intense emotion. "Kill me, kill me." Over and over from her lips until she couldn't speak anymore lost behind her tears. Breaking down. Giving in. Grieving the loss of herself as she never had the chance before.

No, he was wrong earlier in the evening, in her office. He thought he had seen true beauty with her scars, the canvas of her battered body. But her total loss of self, the weeping as she fought against him now. Yes. This was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Harley's lament, without words. He watched her carefully, trying to memorize every tear, every breath she took, every push against him. She was nearly broken.

Her submission was close.

When her head dropped, drained of her turmoil, he stood, pulling her up by her arms and into his. Mr. J wrapped his arms around her back, moving her like a doll, back and forth in a swaying motion. A real dance to match their metaphorical one. Docile, tears still moistening her cheeks, she turned her face up to him as he looked down at her. No music but there didn't need to be any. The music of their dance was known to both of them.

"You owe me," she said, her voice hoarse and weak. Her arms which hung limply at her side, rose to rest lightly on his upper arms.

Referring to their deal. A nod. He kept his promises."Want to know how I got these scars?" Sincere, no anger. Earnest.

"Do you even know how you got them?" she asked in return. A tiny bit of control still hanging on as she moved with him. "I don't think you do."

"Then why don't you tell me the story of yours," he said, with a smile, spinning her out from under his arm. In a fluid motion, he sat back in his chair. A captive audience.

* * *

><p>Tired. Bone tired. The sort of exhaustion that occurred after an emotional meltdown. She didn't want to stand there, her bare feet against the frigid floor. She just wanted to sleep. And rolling around in the back of her mind, she wondered how she was able to stay in control. Her dark side had backed off for some unknown reason. And in front of her, Mr. J was watching her every movement, expectant, waiting for yet another story. But Harleen had no more words to give him, no stories.<p>

She shook her head at him, feeling the cool air sting against her wet cheeks. Harleen would give him something better than another tale. Without a word, she unbuttoned her pants, the garment sliding down her legs to pool at her feet. Stepping away from the fabric, she stood still, giving him the time to process. His eyes hungrily trailed down her body, focusing on the mutilated flesh of her legs. Mangled scar tissue from the fire on her lower left leg. His eyes passed over the mass, not knowing its origin, but not asking either.

Black ink ran from her mid-calf to her upper thigh on her right leg, lines of chaos, disjointed and twisting around her entire leg, a representation of her at her worst. On both ends of the tattoo, the edges came to points, like a sword, Like blackened flames spreading from the center, outwards. Pink streaks of scarred flesh ran the rest of her leg where the tattoo didn't touch, with purpose. The torn flesh, severed by a scalpel, created a stunning, if disturbing, visual. Discordant black and pink ran together, some small slashes of white interrupting the pattern, from other scars or her natural skin, all blending from the center of her knee, outwards, like a firework of suffering.

Her upper and outer left thigh was a blank canvas, one of the only areas of her body not touched by her demons. A slow pirouette, to exhibit the back of that thigh, exposed the long scar running from the back of her knee, up her thigh, disappearing into the soft fabric of her blue panties. The line continued almost to her back, she knew, her underwear concealing that secret.

"Closer," he demanded.

The authority in Mr. J's voice was hard to resist, and she felt herself drawing nearer to him, within arm's reach. His gaze was so ravenous, as if he was trying to memorize every detail of her battered form. The scar that ran down her spine was now entirely revealed, the bottom ending just above the line of her panties. It was one of the most elegant scars she had with its etched lines banding horizontally across it. Closing her eyes, she reached behind her to snap off her bra so the line was uninterrupted for his scrutiny, wanting him to see the mastery behind it. At the same time, she wondered why she felt no embarrassment, as she let her bra drop to the floor.

Harleen nearly gasped as one of his fingers traced the line, from her lower back to her neck. A slight pause at every marked banding, emphasizing their placement. He didn't need to speak to make his intentions known. "It was a branding," she answered his unspoken question. "An old family heirloom of my mother, a gold chain."

Mr. J's hands spread over the two masses on her lower back, drawing a shiver from her, the tension between them growing. Slowly, she turned back to face him, bare breasts, hard nipples. His gaze wasn't entirely clinical as he scanned the only other area of her body barely touched by scarring. Except for the ring of teeth, a gift from one of her victims. And the diamond in the center of her chest, another branding. His palm pressed against the diamond, it's four sided shape smaller than the span of his hand. A slow path lower, to touch the thin spidery lines under her breasts. "These were the first." A matter of fact statement from him. He recognized the beginner's mark.

"Yes," she said, suddenly no longer feeling the cold in her body. The room was warming up, her body flushing from his attention.

Fingers drifted downwards, outlining the scars on her stomach. And then he pulled away, looking down at her thighs, then back up to her, nodding. Expectations obvious. She raised her left leg, resting her foot on his knee, baring her inner thigh to his scrutiny. It was truly the most exposed part of herself, not just because of the location, but because the barely visible markings were the most intimate. He took one look at that scarred flesh then looked up at her, heat in his eyes. His fingers traced the tiny lines, the small scars that had been worked into her skin, cuts that had to be renewed time and time again. She remembered every moment of that writhing ecstasy. Forming one word. Harlequin.

"The Harlequin as a traditional role is a jester, an acrobat, another buffoon of the Commedia dell'arte," Harleen said, trying to ignore his probing fingers as they edged closer to her panties. "But its roots are much darker, in the form of the Hellequin. An envoy of the devil that led the Wild Hunt. Chasing the souls of the damned to hell, their bodies a twisted mockery of the human condition."

Harleen spread her arms to emphasize her broken body. "I was the Hellequin, the Harlequin. I wore a mask of beauty to hide the mutilated demon underneath. I hunted those who deserved hell for truly if there is a god, we are all damned. And I loved every moment of it."

Mr. J growled lightly, pushing her foot off his knee and yanking her into his lap, her legs straddling his mid thighs. She gasped at the sudden movement, thrown off balance, her hands grasping his shoulders to stop herself from falling. As she settled, she felt his left hand wrap around her back, holding her steady. Uncertainty filled her, the nervous energy of the unknown. His eyes, black and unreadable, holding her captive with their fire. The unmistakable sound of a zipper and the movement of his hand between them. The soft rustle of fabric.

His left arm, stronger than it seemed, pulled her closer, stark demand in his actions. Harleen could feel his hand pressing against the damp material of her panties, making her insides quiver from both dread and anticipation. She couldn't deny the passion inside, but she also couldn't give in. Tenuous control, she breathed deeply, holding his eyes, and whispered, "No."

The fire sparked behind his eyes as he said, "Yes." Then he quickly moved her panties aside and thrust his cock inside her, pulling his hand out to wrap around her back. He jerked her close, sliding all the way in, her wetness offering no resistance. The initial shock of the sexual contact nearly broke her control, her demons remembering the euphoria of connection. Harleen panted harshly, preparing for the war to rage within her, but Mr. J stopped all motion. Once fully inside her, he didn't move, allowing her the time to collect herself.

As they stared at one another, she imagined her eyes showed nothing but fear. It had been a lonely decade, all her sexuality repressed behind her cool exterior. Harleen refused to even masturbate, so afraid she'd slip with the pleasant sensations. But feeling Mr. J's rock hard erection throbbing inside her folds, she found herself more terrified that she didn't slip at all. Her first rational and coherent thought was to stop this before it went any further. She tried to lift herself off him, but his two arms, still encircling her torso, locked her to him tightly. She couldn't budge a muscle, not for lack of trying.

His eyes told her everything. He wanted to prove a point to her, that he had the strength to control her, to stop her from escaping his grasp. Mr. J wanted her to understand that, to trust that he would keep her under his mastery. She never had any doubt he could, his power undeniable. And there was something softer behind his actions. The honest understanding of their dance, unfurling in a new direction. Mr. J wanted this moment with her, the primal connection to meld together their minds and bodies. An homage to everything they had worked towards, for months. It was almost romantic.

And for minutes, they stared at each other, neither moving or speaking. Their bodies entwined together, her mind lost in the present, no longer thinking of the past. His breathing slowed to match hers, becoming one. The feeling of unity. And then he moved his right arm from her back, slipping the hand between them. Gently, he slid a finger beneath her panties. Locating her already tingling clit, he began to stroke her, tenderly. The pleasure rippled through her body, causing her muscles to tighten around his hardness, coercing a groan out of him. Mr. J made no other motion except the soft, tantalizing rhythm of his finger.

Harleen expected a fight for control, but there was nothing but the slowly increasing pressure inside her. No, her darkness knew what was coming. It waited for the conclusion, allowing her the easy caresses that threatened to overthrow her dominant restraint. His eyes were fierce, watching her skin flush as the fervor of her years of abstinence came to close. Gripping him deeply inside her, his other arm prevented her from the natural instinct to move up and down on him. The ecstasy was growing quickly inside her as his finger rubbed her clit in faster circles. The pressure unceasingly gentle despite his increased speed.

It felt too good, the raw pleasure touching her core, forcing a moan out of her. Even without movement, she could see the enjoyment, from her involuntary pulsations, behind his dark eyes. His breathing sped up. And the entire time, they maintained eye contact with each other, not wanting to break the rapture of the dance. Even when he leaned down to lick one of her nipples, sucking it between his lips, he never broke her gaze. Smirking as her body trembled.

The sensations were reaching a peak within her, hitting a final plateau without crashing over. Her moans became louder, wanting to feel the end, the release, to satiate the demons inside, let them loose. But all his efforts wouldn't make it happen. Harleen needed something more, the pain. He saw that aching demand inside her and his hand slipped away from her back. Her internal muscles squeezed his cock, anticipation filling her at the sound of his blade flicking open. Yes, what she craved, what she needed.

He pressed the tip of the blade between her breasts, in the center of the diamond. For the first time, he broke eye contact to look at the glint of silver, then back up to her. "Say it," he commanded.

He needed her permission. Needed her to agree, to make her choice. The moment she had delayed. She couldn't take her own life. And she couldn't let him transform her into something worse. As the never-ending sensations pushed her body to maddening irritation, she wanted to say yes only to feel the waves of orgasm spread through her. But that wasn't what either of them wanted. Her answer had to be honest, real. What she wanted. The manipulation of her body wasn't on the table. It was her soul he was after. Mr. J, the devil.

As she looked past his intensity, she saw the one thing reflecting in his eyes that she hoped she would. Need. It wasn't just about her and her choice. His obsession had brought forth the same longings that she also denied, someone who understood. Both her darkness and light were drawn to him, and she touched his face, feeling the rough scars under her fingers. Gasping with the pleasure throughout her, she made the only decision she could. Surrender. Acceptance.

Had there ever been another choice?

"I'm yours, Mr. J," she said, pressing her forehead against his. And with those words, she felt her burden lifted, the weight of so much internal conflict pushed off her. She wouldn't have to worry about herself anymore. It was the biggest relief to give it all to someone else, the joy filling her. For the first time in her entire life, Harleen was truly free.

She let go of his face and arched her back to present the canvas of her body. His finger on her clit slowed as he pushed the tip of the blade into her skin, causing a spasm through her body. She watched him lick his lips, giving her one last glance, before he sliced the blade through her skin, deep enough to penetrate the layers of the scar. Pushed over the edge by the exquisite agony that engulfed her body, her orgasm shook through her with a scream. At the same time, Harleen let go of herself, allowing her darkness to take over, enjoying every moment as she once did years ago.

Mr. J removed the knife before the convulsions that shook her body caused deeper than intended wounds. After a couple of minutes, she came down from her high, feeling his length still hard inside her, no doubt due to the pulsing muscles that still gripped him. She looked at him, the bliss clear on her face. "Fuck, I missed that."

Bowing his head, his tongue dashed out to capture some of the blood that trailed down her body. Harley laughed as he reached the center of her chest, teasing the fresh wound, causing minor tremors through her body. Her desires flooded through her, wanting more and she began to move her hips back and forth, enjoying the feel of his cock sliding against her slick folds. Not for long, though, as he pushed her off him, harshly. Nimble enough to land crouched on her feet, she looked up as he stood, holding his blade between his teeth, unbuttoning and removing his vest.

Undeterred, she stood fluidly, gripping his shirt and jerking him towards her. Her hand pushing downwards to capture his erection. Wanted it, needed it back inside. Again, he pushed her away from him, the bed against the back of her thighs. With a sneer at her, he backhanded her, hard, her body crumpling from the force of the blow on to the bed. Delicious pain filling her, a moan from her lips at his cruel treatment, the taste of blood on her lips. Pulling his suspenders off his shoulders, his trousers fell to his ankles and he stepped out of the garment, kicking off his shoes. In the dim candlelight, she could make out the lines and scars of old wounds on his calves and thighs.

One last motion and he pulled his shirt off, her body instantly tightening at the sight of his naked torso. Although not as creative or wicked as her own, his body was almost as marred as hers. Her medical knowledge dissecting the cause of his wounds. Knives, gunshots, burns. She wanted to add to the mess, something new. Something hers. She pulled herself up to make a mark, only to be shoved back down on to the mattress by Mr. J, ripping her panties down her legs. He climbed on the bed, snatching his coat out from behind her, tossing it onto the chair. She smiled up at him as he knelt between her legs. The glint of the knife between his teeth, the only weapon nearby now.

Taking the knife into his right hand, he looked down at her, unbridled lust in in eyes. "Has anyone ever told you that you look great in red, Harley?" He ran his other hand over the slice he created, her body shuddering with pleasure, feeling his hardness at her entrance. She bucked forward to force him inside but he pulled away, teasing her. A growl of annoyance from her and she struck out at his face. He nabbed her hand before it could land, forcing it down to the mattress, shaking his head.

"You'll learn, soon enough," he said and she heard the jingle of metal, the feel of cold steel against her wrist. A click as the handcuff snapped into place around her left wrist again.

"Learn what?" She pulled against the handcuff, relishing the sensation of metal cutting into her skin with a sigh.

He leaned down to pin her other hand to the bed, looking deeply into her chaotic void. "That you can't do what you want anymore. You do what _I_ want now. You belong to me, Harley." His hips moved forward again, the tip of his cock at her entrance. "You'll eat when I tell you. Kill when I point at a target." His lips pressed against her ear, his breath hot, sending shivers down her spine. "You'll come when I allow you to," he said, violently thrusting inside her.

Her back arched at the brutality of his assault, her hips rising to meet his, legs wrapping around his waist. She moaned loudly as he pounded her hard and fast, unrelenting in his ferocity. The loud smack of flesh against flesh penetrated the quiet, her moans matched by his grunting. Every time he plunged in to her depths, she could feel his cock run across her sensitive nerves, increasing her pleasure.

His lips and teeth ravaged her upper body, from her neck to her nipples, biting, sucking, and licking every piece of skin he came in contact with. Pain swelled through her from his onslaught, sending her body into pre-orgasmic spasms, her moans turning to screams. Mr. J let go of her hand and she wrapped it around his back, pulling him closer, wanting to feel his battered body against hers. Her fingers traced the outline of a scar on his shoulder blade before digging her nails in.

Sweat poured down his face, smearing the remnants of his makeup, his eyes more intense than she had ever seen. Possessive as he absorbed her. Her nails raked down his back deeply, feel the blood flow under her lustful grip. He grunted in pain and sped up his frenzied hammering of her, dragging a euphoric scream from her. She needed more. Craved more. She was on the edge, trembling against him. "Hurt me," she whispered into his ear before nipping the lobe.

Mr. J pulled up to look at her demanding eyes, desperate for her release, and he laughed. "Not yet," he said, malicious glee in his eyes. Hovering at the edge and wanting to make him do something extreme, she slid her arm from his back to his front, wrapping her fingers around his throat. Before she could squeeze, she found her hand pinned back to the mattress with a growl from him. He didn't slow down, didn't let up, always fast and hard, amplifying her frustration. Despite his ragged breathing, he was obviously intent on teaching her a lesson, holding off on his own release.

Beneath him, Harley was going insane, cursing and screaming at him, calling him names and fighting against his weight. He leaned down to bite lightly on her nipples, not enough to cause any real pain, just enough to add to her torture. Even though crazed with need, whimpering, she looked up at him and gasped out, "Please."

Something about the word, or the way she said it, caused his rhythm to waver and his raspy voice let out a moan. His full weight pressed down against her, grabbing her head to twist her neck to the side, pressing the blade just below the nick under her ear. Once small slice was all it took, waves of pleasure crashing over her, her body convulsing against him. Her pulsating muscles contracted around his cock and he thrust in as far as he could before coming inside her with a growl. He collapsed on top of her when he finished, shudders still wracking through her for some time.

His breathing was erratic but contented in her ear and she raised her free hand to touch the back of his head, satisfied with the feeling of him still twitching inside her. Then his lips pressed against her ear, speaking soft words. He was fulfilling his promise to her, telling her the one thing he knew he could trust her with. A whisper in her ear, as if he was worried the air would carry his words to another part of Gotham. Sacred, vital. The missing piece of him.

Harleen felt her control return, if only for this one final moment, to witness the apex and conclusion of their dance. And as soon as the words left his lips, she felt the trembling inside his chest, the unsteady breathing. Mr. J was crying. Remembering and crying. She moved her hand to his back, gentle strokes to comfort him at his most vulnerable. He was trusting her, giving her a tiny piece of himself to hold. It didn't last long. She didn't think it would.

Mr. J pulled back to look at her, his eyes unguarded and naked, dark streaks of black makeup from the wet tears still glistening on his cheeks. It broke her heart, wanting to take his pain away. She pulled him down to her, bringing their lips together, telling him without words that she understood. An honest kiss. Soft, gentle, all the things they would never be. A way to say goodbye, for both of them. Their original dance was over. And in that brief, yet expressive kiss, she felt nothing but gratitude towards him.

And love.

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><p><strong>AN: Thank you all for reading, following, and reviewing. This is my first time writing such an erotic scene, so please let me know what you thought of it, if you have a moment. One more chapter left til the end. But I am currently working on more material for my vision of Joker/Harley. **


	17. Chapter 17: Circles

Chapter Seventeen: Circles

The unveiling of Harley Quinn had been an unparalleled success, throwing Gotham into a spiral of denial, horror, and disgust at the downfall of one of their own and her actions. Her big baby blues and bright smile had appeared on the news regularly for a month after her disappearance, pleas from friends, coworkers and family, begging for any leads on her or the Joker's whereabouts. Naturally, the public grew to love her with all the positive coverage of her life and career. After awhile, despite police efforts to keep the story alive, the coverage tapered off, as it so often did in missing persons cases. The public lost interest, finding something else shiny. Then three months after her supposed kidnapping, all local Gotham news networks received an unlabeled video with a joker card. The disturbing content was on air within the hour, the anchors turning green on camera during the first airing.

The shaky camera focused on the Joker's face, close. "Good evening, Gotham," he said, directly into the lens, someone else filming him. "I do hope you haven't forgotten me because I certainly haven't forgotten you. No need for concern, though. I'm not ready to include you in my fun yet, even though my therapist says it's good for me to socialize. Speaking of, say hello, Harley Quinn."

The camera shifted, passed from one hand to the other. The video widened to show a grinning woman with a painted face. Her smile seemed unnatural, not forced, but almost as if the muscles in her face were stretching further than they should. Sinister and hungry all at once. In contrast to the Joker's messy makeup, hers was meticulously applied, white greasepaint from forehead to chin. Her lips were colored black, her cheeks painted with round red circles. But her eyes were the most disturbing, the merciless eyes of a psychopath. Her beautiful blue irises pierced through the black smudged eye shadow on her lids, pupils tiny as pinpoints. And beneath each eye, a black inverted triangle, the bottom half of a diamond. The image of a clown.

"Hello Gotham," she said, her voice held a promise of wicked things to come, filled with malice and lust.

Her long blond hair had been pulled up into two pigtails, high on each side of her head. The camera panned down from her face. She wore a ringmaster's jacket, the front cut at her waist, the back continuing further down to her thighs. One side of the jacket was red, the other was black. Large white cuffs at her wrist with black buttons, matching the buttons that held the jacket closed. The collar and lapel were covered in large black and white diamonds, the collar rising up high above her neck like the cowl of an upturned cape. Around her neck was a thick leather band with a shiny red diamond hanging from it, the letters HQ imprinted into the gloss. It didn't fully hide the bruises that lay underneath on her throat.

Under the jacket, barely visible was a red and black diamond patterned shirt that swooped well above the line of her breasts. Black leather gloves, similar in style to the Joker's. Her legs were covered in leather, one half black, the other red, opposing the colors on top. The outfit held a checkerboard look. Large diamonds ran down the outside of the pants, again the colors reversed from the background. The pants dived into calf-length boots, solid black. Her entire look was patchwork but evoking the image of the circus and of clowns.

When the camera focused back on her face, the Joker's voice could be heard in the background. "This fine upstanding citizen of your fair city has volunteered to join the game." Referring back to the last time he made a proclamation to Gotham, before his incarceration. Harley's wide smile faded into a smirk, far more natural, giving a mocking salute to the camera with one gloved hand. "Harley, dear, why don't you show everyone what you've been working on?"

The camera panned away from her and to a woman strapped to a chair, her mouth covered in duct tape, tears streaming from her eyes. The woman appeared to be in her forties with short red hair. She was covered in bruises and tiny cuts. Her eyes widened in fear as Harley straddled her on the chair, leaning in to lick one of the cuts. A muffled groan from her victim. She produced a knife out of her jacket, pressing the flat edge of the blade against the woman's cheek. But Harley didn't do anything, simply looked back to the camera, a look of impatience crossing her features.

"She's been having so much fun with our good friend, Barbara Gordon, haven't you?"

Harley nodded. "She's a real screamer, boss." Then she burst into psychotic laughter, gleefully bouncing up and down as she did.

Joker must have given a signal because Harley lit up and turned back to Barbara, moving the edge of the blade down to her already cut up neck, and making small, light slices. A brutal form of torture. The woman screamed against her gag, struggling against her bonds with each cut, tears streaming down her face from the pain. Every scream, Harley leaned down and made calming shushing noises to her, like she believed she was doing it for the woman's benefit, but felt bad that she had to do it.

Meanwhile, the voice over continued. "You see, Gotham, there is the truth that you know from the TV, and then there is the real truth. The real truth is that you've been lied to, tricked by those you consider to be untouchable. Namely one Commissioner Jim Gordon. The same secrets his wife keeps. Why? Because they're afraid of what you'd do, Gotham, if you knew the truth." The camera moved to behind Harley. "Off." His voice was a command.

The girl climbed off her victim, anger in her eyes as she moved out of sight of the camera. The camera shifted a second time and swung back to the Joker, this time a wider angle to show both him and the commissioner's wife. He pulled a gun from his pocket, looking directly to the camera. The screaming behind the gag became almost loud enough to drown out his words.

"She is as culpable as her husband. Demand the truth, Gotham, or someone else, possibly someone innocent, might pay the price next time."

Then he turned, aiming his gun at a wide-eyed, terrified Barbara Gordon and squeezed the trigger. A spray of blood burst from the wound in her lower chest as the camera swung away. The only sound heard was Harley's haunting laugh as the video ended.

* * *

><p>Mr. J stared at her naked body from across the room, wiping the blood from his hands with a handkerchief. Sheer euphoria crossed Harley's face as she ran her fingers over the fresh cut on her outer left thigh. A sublime canvas to ride out his own high from the victory of the day's events. Her perfect makeup smeared across the sheets, her skin covered with the remnants of his own mask. He didn't allow her these moments often but she had done well in obeying his commands. She deserved a reward.<p>

Tossing the piece of cotton aside, he pulled on his boxers. "I'm proud of you, Harley."

She beamed up at him before putting one of her blood soaked fingers to her lips, licking it sensually, with a pleased sound. He grabbed a roll of gauze off the dresser, tossing it beside her. "Wish you had let me shoot her," Harley commented out of the blue, reaching over to the nightstand to grab a pack of cigarettes. "Your aim was off. If any part of her shattered sternum punctured her stomach, she'll die in surgery. Thomas is good but he isn't good enough to defy nature."

Harley was always full of surprises. Riveting, really. Some moments, she was driven completely by her impulses, no care for anything but herself. Others, she seemed satiated, content to carry out a normal conversation with him or sit there listening as he talked about any number of subjects. Though her emotions would eventually explode on any topic, she would often display rationality, intelligence, and forethought, reminding him of their days in her office. She might have lost her control, but she never truly lost her mind.

"I'm a better shot than you," he replied, a smile crossing his lips as he reminisced. She was an artist in her own right, his harlequin, appreciating the visceral far more than he. And the joy it brought her more than made up for the mess. A shame she could rarely control herself when in the thrall of her destructive desires. It had been a long process to get her this far but her training was far from complete. For now, Mr. J was satisfied with her submission to his needs. Not flawless obedience but close enough. And soon, she would learn to act as one with his unspoken thoughts, only giving in to her urges when she believed he would approve.

"Just be grateful I let you play with her at all," he added.

Snorting, Harley lit up her cigarette. "Yeah, I wouldn't trust me with a gun, either." A puff of smoke exhaled from her lips, as her eyes watched him gather his clothing. "Are you going somewhere?"

"Phase two," was all he said, his eyes daring her to question him.

Placing the cigarette in the ashtray, she crawled to the end of the bed, kneeling. "But I haven't had a chance, yet, to thank you for your generosity." Her eyes became heated, her voice throaty. She reached out a hand to grasp the front of his unbuttoned shirt, tugging him back towards her.

He ran one of his hands down her loose locks, cupping her chin in his palm, forcing her head up, looking into those big blue eyes. Playful but serious. Lustful but earnest. She really did want to thank him. Not just for the day's events, but for everything he had done for her. It was a sacrifice, all those months, to get her to this point and she recognized that, for the first time. Harley was grateful that he took control of her chaos, giving her life some meaning. Breaking down her walls so that her guilt disappeared fully. She had killed twice since they began, and neither mark had appeared on her arm. Beyond morality, beyond remorse. Escaping the prison that society imposed on her.

She was truly his greatest masterpiece.

Her soft fingers trailed up his scarred chest, hands wrapping around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss. Their lips met, and Mr. J could feel the tears that fell down her cheeks on his tongue. She tasted like ashes and wild abandon. Pulling back, she rested her head against his chest as he ran his fingers through her hair.

"I love you, Mr. J," she whispered, her face warm against his skin, light kisses across his torso.

Glancing at the nightstand, he watched the smoke rise from the burning cigarette, knowing such fire could only burn for so long before dying. His hand tightened around her hair, yanking her head back again with a delighted squeal from her. Running his other hand down the front of her body, he smiled as his fingers fluttered over the branded diamond between her breasts, tracing the etched letter J in the center of it. A permanent reminder of the night in Gotham General when she first gave herself to him. She shuddered, as if reliving that memory in her mind as well.

Licking his lips, he looked into her eyes. "Harley, do you trust me?" he asked, posing the same question he had asked every night since she told him her story, repeating the same words her dead lover had so often whispered in her ear. Trust was not easy for her but until she gave herself to him fully, this was just a diversion, a fun game. And never the same answer from her, always fighting his control at every turn, the wild girl.

Beneath his hands, she stiffened noticeably. Her face became a myriad of emotional turmoil, a change from her usual biting retort to the question, flickering between hate, love, anger, lust, fear. Yes, a change, as he could see her ponder the question. But then a look settled across her features, an image he had never seen before, as if something clicked inside her mind. And she smiled.

"With my life," Harley responded, her entire body relaxing against him, absolute trust and faith shining from behind her eyes. She meant every word to her core.

Finally.

Mr. J smiled down at her, genuinely pleased with her, stroking her tear stained cheeks, her ruined makeup smearing on his fingers. Closing her eyes, she basked in his affections, kissing his fingers as they passed her lips. His beautiful Harley Quinn with the face of an angel and the body of a demon. He truly looked forward to beginning his real work on her. She was ready to understand the world as he saw it. Mr. J couldn't wait.

He leaned down to kiss her again, her hands lowering to pull down his boxers. Despite her honest revelation, she had become consumed by primal lust again. His laughter against her lips vibrated through the air of the bedroom. There was so much left to do but screw it. It had been a good day. With a smile, he pushed her head downwards.

Patience. Gotham could wait a little while longer.

* * *

><p>Harleen Quinzel killed two guards and severely disfigured a nurse her first night in Arkham. It had been nearly a year since her original disappearance from the asylum, nine months since the public first saw the twisted woman that once had such a bright future. Joan was perplexed by the change in her former employee, not expecting such violence and cruelty from her. She wasn't in the examination room when the tragedy occurred, attending to a patient in another ward. But she saw the scene after, mentally imagining how Harleen lulled the two female guards into believing her harmless before grabbing their guns and shooting them both dead. Then she turned her attentions to the nurse.<p>

It was the same nurse who administered the wrong drugs to the Joker so long ago.

Afterwards, they found Harleen passively sitting on the examination table, the gun on the ground, the nurse passed out in the corner, a gash ripping out from her lips. The Glasgow smile that Harleen's lover was known for. When they approached her, she dropped the knife from her hands, with a feral sneer. "Mr. J is the only one allowed to see my body."

She was tossed into maximum security solitary immediately, still wearing her black and red wardrobe, giving Dr. Leland a chance to decide on how to approach the situation. Rather than impair the already damaged psyche of her former friend, she decided to grant her some dignity, striking a deal. In return for allowing Joan, and Joan alone, to examine her, Harleen would be allowed a full length uniform and privacy for showering. She accepted without hesitation.

Joan almost wished she hadn't, keeping the horror she felt to herself, as Harleen stripped off her clothing. But Harleen gave her a knowing smirk, seeing beyond the clinical mask, understanding the sight unveiled. It was hard to stay professional seeing the battered body of her friend, wanting to shake her and ask "why would you ever let anyone do this to you?" The older scars were disturbing, but truly, more appalling were the bruises that covered over half of her body, the fresh cuts covered in gauze, and other unidentifiable recent injuries. Holding her tongue, Joan treated the wounds that needed it, even going so far as to offer her friend a pain killer. Harleen declined.

A day later, sitting in her ground floor office, Joan quickly found something even more unsettling than the countless injuries; Harleen's unwavering obsession with the Joker, a devotion that sparked joy in her eyes every time his name was mentioned, despite his apparent victimization of her. The session also became frustrating as Harleen refused to answer any questions posed to her.

"Do you understand that the nature of your relationship with the Joker is abusive?"

Harleen tilted her head, curiously, her mood shifting, her eyes flickering around the room. Joan observed this happen multiple times, her reactions differing to her varied questions. Almost giving her answers without speaking. Harleen didn't seem to mind the straight jacket that wrapped around her, not struggling with it. In fact, she had been eerily docile since the previous night. Only one small incident in the morning caused any alarm, when Harleen, on her way down to Dr. Leland's office, passed by Jonathan Crane who was being led away from Dr. Arkham's office. He yelped in terror as she winked at him, lending credence to his tale that Dr. Quinzel had been the one to damage him and not the Joker as most believed.

"Do you love him?" Joan inquired, after a few silent minutes.

Harleen's features softened, a smile crossing her lips, speaking for the first time. "Yes."

Delighted at the response, Joan tried to keep her voice steady as she asked the one question she'd been dying to know. "Why?"

"Why?" Harleen's face twisted in disbelief, another mood change to anger. "You ask me why? Are you fucking blind?"

"Now Harleen, there's no need to get upset," Joan said gently.

But she continued, talking over Joan's words. "I shouldn't be surprised that a coward like you would ask that question because you can never comprehend how it even happened, despite everything being laid at your feet." Harleen grinned, a twisted caricature, her eyes becoming more intense. "I wonder, how did it feel when Mr. J pressed his blade against your skin, demanding you call me? Were your terrified out of your skull as so many others have been? Did you cry? Piss yourself? You sounded so calm on the phone you called me, setting all these wheels in motion, practically pushing me into his arms. All to save your own life from a psychopath who was obviously intent on destroying mine. You traded my life for yours."

Joan stilled, her eyes widening, as Harleen continued her verbal assault. "The guilt must be killing you, Joan, knowing that you're responsible for all of this. Assigning me Mr. J's case. Failing to see the signs of his growing obsession towards me, or mine towards him. And you just let it slide when I confessed I had no video evidence of our sessions. That should have been a clue that I wasn't playing by the rules anymore, especially considering how I reacted when that nurse messed up his meds. But no, you just turned on your blinders, believing my lies, giving him the opportunity to slip under my barriers." She breathed heavily, unleashing her fury through words. Joan was certain if Harleen had not been restrained, she would have attacked physically.

"How many times have you replayed that night in your mind, wondering if there was something you could have done differently? Maybe if you'd said no, taken your licks, you could have prevented the deaths of all those I've killed since I met him. Or after he locked you in the closet, if you had just kicked down the door instead of hiding in the corner and praying no one would harm you, that nurse wouldn't be lying in a hospital bed, trying not to scream from the pain, knowing it will split her face wider. Does it sting, Joan, to know that everything that's happened has been because of your incompetence?"

Joan blanched, tears filling her eyes, listening so intently to her greatest fears coming out of Harleen's lips. "I...I..." She couldn't think of a response.

The anger dropped out of Harleen's face, so suddenly that it jarred Joan, a gentle smile replacing it immediately. "Thank you so much Joan, for bringing us together. I truly appreciate it from the bottom of my heart."

Joan rushed out of the room without another word, the tears in her eyes threatening to spill down her face. A minute later, while collecting herself in the ladies room, she nearly fell as the floor beneath her feet shook harshly. Grasping onto the sink to stay upright, she heard the huge booming sound that echoed throughout the building. She recognized the sound of an explosion. The second one in two years. With a curse, she exited the bathroom, heading to her office, only to find the source. The outer wall of her office was decimated, chunks of debris everywhere, including where she had been sitting only minutes before.

The couch where Harleen had been sitting was empty, save for her straight jacket. And a letter addressed to Joan.

Later, when time allowed, Joan sat down with Harleen Quinzel's file, the letter, and the video of Harleen's session that she was able to pull from the ruins of her office. Two photographs stared up from the file. The first was Harleen's employee photo, clean and pristine. The second was her mugshot, her eyes crazed, makeup smeared. Pressing play on the video, she picked up the letter and began to read.

_Dear Joan, _

_I apologize for my harsh words. I don't blame you for anything that's happened and neither should you. Some things are just destined to happen and nothing can stop fate. You ask why I love him. Because I need him as much as he needs me and for the first time in my life, I am genuinely happy. I know you believe he is abusing me, but I welcome every blow, every cut. He doesn't do it because he's cruel. He does it because he's kind. Without him, I would be ten times worse. Now, I have purpose, as an extension of his will. I have found freedom from the prison I placed around myself so long ago. _

_I don't expect you to understand. But since this probably won't be the last time I'm sent to Arkham, I don't want to waste your time. There are some people who can never be fixed, the damage is too deep. You and I both know this. I'm one of them. I don't want your help. I don't need your help. No amount of medication or therapy will change who I am at my core. _

_I am chaos embodied and I will forever belong to him._

_Love, HQ_

Folding the letter, Joan leaned back in her chair, watching the video. Hearing the vicious words from her friend's mouth a second time. Watching herself leave the room. A minute passed as Harleen looked up to the clock behind the camera, Joan could easily follow the line of her eyes. Then a smirk crossed her mouth, as she stared directly at the camera. "Boom," she said, a second before the wall exploded.

The image tilted, fell to the ground, and then went to fuzz, as a piece of shrapnel damaged the camera. For all the writing in the letter, Harleen wasn't truly lost. She spoke those cruel words with the intention of getting Joan out of the room. Her friend saved her life, Joan realized. And it reminded her of a conversation they had, the one that convinced her that Dr. Quinzel was the perfect candidate to take the Joker's case.

Staring down at the letter, reading the words "_I don't need your help"_ for a second time, Joan couldn't stop the smile that crossed her face. Moving her eyes over to the first photograph, she remembered, fondly, the smell of coffee and the careful responses of her former colleague.

"I have to try, even if it won't help," Joan whispered to the photo, before closing the file, hoping wherever Harleen Quinzel was, she would understand.

**End**

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><p><strong>AN: ****I want to thank all those who have been following, reviewing, or PMing with me over the course of this story. I absolutely loved writing this piece and I'm thrilled that other people seem to love it too. I am working on a sequel piece right now so hopefully something will be up in the next month, so keep an eye out.**

**If you've been following and haven't yet reviewed, please do. I'd love to hear your feedback on this story as a whole. The good, the bad, the ugly and everything in between. Feedback is vital to improvement as a writer. **

**And to give you all an idea of what I had in mind for Harley's costume, send me a PM or leave a review to ask for it. I am a terrible artist but wanted to give you a glimpse of what I was thinking of for a Nolanverse Harley, if you're interested. If any of you are skilled artists, hit me up. I'd love a not-crappy version of it.**

**Again, thank you all very much and I look forward to writing more for you all!  
><strong>


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